Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes
by ItsAKiliThing
Summary: Read about a new tenant in 221c, Sherlock getting his cheekbones scolded, John becoming increasingly confused and soufflé after soufflé as Moriarty and the Doctor are about to turn round the corner.Outrageous flirting, wild arguments, suggestive eyebrows, deducing and endless seducing! OSLOCK
1. Cheekbones

This FanFiction is also available on Wattpad; Username: ItsAKiliThing

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Thank-you to Ariane DeVere on LiveJournal for the transcript of the episodes.

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I do not own the Doctor Who or Sherlock universes or characters.

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I created the cover image using online pictures and collage apps.

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Clara Oswald was young, hardworking and going absolutely nowhere. She had left the kind hearted family she had babysat for and moved straight to London on a whim. She was dreaming of a fairy tale life. She would get an amazing job at a wonderful school and marry a man or a woman who she would love for the rest of her life.

Of course, nothing of the sort happened. Clara set her two suitcases down on the gritty floor and grimaced at her new flat. It was practically a basement. There was hardly any natural light casted over the small kitchenette or the tinsy living room. Mrs Hudson, the nice old land lady was absolutely delighted that Clara had moved in. She was practically hovering two inches above the ground as she led Clara through the flat. "I can't thank you enough for moving in here Miss Oswald, no one else would take it." Mrs Hudson sighed fiddling with her flowery apron.

"Once I get it all fixed up and a few er, womanly touches, it should be good as new!" Clara tried to smile happily, but the enormity of the job was slowly sinking into her head. "Oh and call me Clara, I can't stand it when I'm reminded of my unmarried status," She chuckled, trying to humour the old woman.

Mrs Hudson squeezed Clara's arm. "Oh, you're a funny one Clara! God knows we need a bit of laughter here on Baker Street," She gushed, frowning at the ground. "There's a single man upstairs but…" She trailed off, making a face. "He's a bit strange. He means well, I think – but don't be surprised if some god awful noise wakes you up in the middle of the night. He's always doing experiments."

Clara nodded slightly. She was a tad confused by Mrs Hudson's gossip. Mrs Hudson left her in the dingy flat, muttering about groceries. Clara let herself sigh loudly before getting on with it. Today, she would find out if manual labour and her would ever get on. She picked up a pair of old runners that were sitting oddly in the middle of the carpet and shoved them into the bin. She tore down the dusty curtains, sparking a coughing fit out of her. She threw the mouldy food out of the fridge and wiped down all the surfaces she could get her hands on. Finally, Clara smacked on a pair of rubber gloves and decided to brave the bathroom.

She actually felt pretty proud of herself after a few hours of hard work. The furniture truck came and some nice lads helped her move her bed in. 221C was looking ship shape as Clara smoothed her hand over her little desk and flattened a colourful rug across the floor. She snatched her laptop from on top of her suitcase and curled up on her bad amongst the purple and blue pillows. She scrolled through online newspapers lazily, searching for anything that vaguely resembled teacher, nanny or tutor positions. There was absolutely nothing that Clara could apply for. She laid back closing her eyes and cursing her brain for putting this fantasy into her head. Of course London wasn't magical! What a silly idea, to think moving to the city would do her any good.

Clara absentmindedly clicked onto Skype. She tried calling her father, but he didn't answer. He was always a weeper - cried at everything. He even shed a few tears when her pet goldfish was found belly up at the top of the bowl. Clara figured he was probably in a bit of denial at her moving, but they both knew it was time. Clara logged off, but she must have clicked the wrong button because her screen lit up with the outline of a man.

"Hello?" Clara asked nervously. She sat up a bit, her body on high alert.

"Who are you?" A deep voice responded, the stranger came and sat right in front of the screen. He had a long pale face and a mop of dark curls. "I can't see you."

"What do you mean you can't see me?" Clara muttered. She started fiddling with her laptops buttons, cursing her horrible technology skills. All previous worry was shoved to the side as she poked at her laptop. "I can see you."

"I was trying to Skype John," He said, lip curling in frustration. His intelligent grey eyes – or were they light blue? – sharpened and oh, the cheekbones!

"Who's John?" Clara wondered aloud.

"My flat mate. Who are you?" The stranger sniffed and proceeded to wobble his laptop roughly.

"None of your business," Clara told him, her chin jutting back. "Who are you?"

"None of your business," the man replied, sitting back in his chair. He considered the laptop with obvious irritation. Clara couldn't tell much from his surroundings – ghastly wallpaper, a few strange trinkets but, was that a skull?

"Is that a skull on your mantelpiece?" She demanded. This handsome stranger was turning out to be quite interesting.

"Friend of mine," he said stiffly, "Not important."

"Bet he was a nice bloke," Clara murmured under her breath, smiling in awe. "Why are you skyping me?"

The man sighed and rolled his eyes boldly. "I was trying to Skype John, do keep up. No why can't I see you? All I tell is that you're female and English!"

"Is he your flat mate or your _flat mate?_ " Clara asked, her eyebrows wiggling even though he couldn't see it. Now she was really enjoying this.

"He has a girlfriend. Now why can't I see you? I need to deduce something!" He slammed his fingers on the edge of the desk and let out a frustrated sigh.

"Whoa, Cheekbones, don't cut yourself," Clara giggled.

"Cheekbones," the man protested. He felt his face, a furrow appearing between his brows. This only made Clara laugh even more.

"Careful dear, you might poke someone's eyes out. Anyway, what did you mean by deduce?"

He sat forward, ready to show off. "I can read people, observe things others can't. Now why can't I see you?" He squinted up at the camera. Clara got up and carried the laptop to the kitchen and propped it up onto the toaster.

"Broken camera, bad hair, take your pick," she offered, filling the kettle up with water and lighting the gas stove. She peered at the mysterious man. What a strange day. She was surprisingly curious about him. He was odd, but in a good way – she hoped.

The man flicked his head away in annoyance. "Not helpful," he sneered, eyes twinkling.

Clara squirmed in the kitchen, hardly being able to keep the smile off her face. "So is there a word for a total screaming genius that sounds modest but a tiny bit sexy?" She asked.

The stranger gave a lopsided smile. "The name's Sherlock Holmes."

Clara grinned. "I see what you did there."

"So what have you been doing other than skyping a total stranger?" He tried to sound nonchalant but Clara could tell in his face that he was desperate for an answer.

"Moving, job-hunting, baking soufflés?" She suggested, glancing at the ingredients set up in the cupboard. She took the shrill kettle off the stove and poured the bubbling water into a teacup. "You?"

"Observing, deducing and solving crimes," he replied casually.

"Oh! A detective; your girlfriend must be so pleased," Clara told him brightly.

"Consulting detective," He corrected, eye twitching. "And before you ask, I consider myself married to my work."

"Shame," Clara sighed, sipping her tea. "I'm depressingly single."

"Gathered."

Clara stared in shock at the laptop screen. "How?"

"You flirting," Sherlock Holmes stated with smug logic.

"Everyone flirts," Clara argued, "Even married people!"

"Married people flirt differently," Sherlock explained. He rolled his eyes, as if it was obvious.

"Just admit that your blank laptop screen is totally turning you on," Clara said quickly, breath hitching in excitement. She bit her lip but Holmes's expression didn't change. She was a tad put off.

"John is back, I have to go," He said. Clara heard a door slam through the speakers.

"Goodbye, Mr Holmes," She uttered dismally. All the exhilaration disappeared.

"Goodbye Soufflé Girl."

The call ended and Clara felt that her flat was oddly silent. Who was this mysterious Sherlock Holmes? She typed through a message with her number on it, just because. She had no friends in London, and a handsome stranger through Skype was her best bet. He was probably on the other side of England, hell, maybe even the other side of the world! If only she knew that he was slumped on the couch directly above her.


	2. Soufflé Girl

The daffodil sunshine illuminated the terrible walls and bounced off of the humming fridge the next morning. Clara yawned in delight as she remembered the conversation between the mysterious Sherlock Holmes last night. Was it bad that social networking was suddenly the most exciting thing in her life? Clara sat up, lying back on the wall and grabbing her laptop off the night stand. She tapped his name into Google, twisting her mouth as she started scrolling. "Hmmm," she murmured. "You _have_ been busy, haven't you Mister Holmes?" Countless articles detailed a consulting detective putting the police to shame. The man really was a total screaming genius.

Clara heaved herself out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom in her nighty. She turned the tap but a loud grumble resonated and a splatter of rusty water decorated the sink. She frowned and went to check the kitchen tap. The pipes clanged underneath the cabinet and the spout shuddered. Strange. It had worked yesterday. It was early but Clara wandered to Mrs Hudson's door anyway. She squirmed on the doorstep in her dressing gown and rapped on the door sharply. The corridor was freezing. There wasn't any response so Clara ducked around to the shop. Mrs Hudson was bustling between the shelves, picking at her lip as she admired jam jars. "Um, excuse me, Mrs Hudson?" Clara interrupted politely, smiling briefly.

The landlady jumped in surprise, her hands dithering. "Oh Clara, you gave me a fright! What can I do for you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry but, I tried the taps this morning and no water came out," Clara said, hugging her arms around her. She felt awkward being in her pajamas.

"No water? That's strange," Mrs Hudson replied, "I'll have to come round and check - oh, hello John!"

A sandy haired man wearing a dark jacket and worn out jeans had wandered into the shop. He was shorter than average and seemed pleased to see Mrs Hudson. "Morning Mrs Hudson, I'm going to the shops and just wondered if you wanted anything?" He gave Clara a polite smile.  
"John, this is Clara Oswald, she just moved into 221C, downstairs from you," Mrs Hudson said brightly. "Clara this is John, he's a doctor, you know?"

"Hi," Clara greeted, smiling sheepishly.

"Hello."

She couldn't help but notice how he eyed her attire with a confused frown. Clara blushed. "Water wasn't working this morning, I came to ask Mrs Hudson about it."

"Oh, of course. I can take a look at it, if you'd like?" He offered.

Clara almost sighed with relief. "Really? I wouldn't want to interrupt your shopping."

"Don't worry about it, I've got all day anyway. 221C was it?"

Clara grinned. "Yeah, follow me."

In the small apartment, John tried to make sense of the plumbing system. He had a small toolkit from Mrs Hudson's flat arrayed on the floor. Clara looked over his shoulder, wondering if she'd ever have a shower before Christmas. "I think I just need to…" He used a spanner to twist a knob. Water burbled out of the tap before bursting into a steady stream. Clara clapped her hands together. "Good man!" She exclaimed, patting her handy neighbour on the shoulder.

"No trouble really," John said humbly, though he had a smug smile on his face. "I'll be off to the shops, see you later."

"Okay, thank-you, John. Maybe next time, eh?" Clara smiled at him one last time before rushing back into the bathroom. Steam was already fogging up the glass. John was nice, though Clara doubted they would progress far from polite neighbours. She wondered how long he'd lived here. Maybe he would know about any jobs going around. Maybe he had children she could nanny for! Clara shook her head. She showered and dressed, slipping into a simple dress and cardigan. Her phone blipped from the table. She picked it up as she stuffed her house keys into her handbag. "Hello?" She answered, wedging the device between her cheek and shoulder as she locked the door.

"Good morning," a deep voice said on the other end of the line. A zing of excitement went all the way down to her toes. She grinned like an idiot.

"Morning, Mr Holmes!" She answered while sticking her hand out for the cab that was chugging down the road. She squished the phone to her chest as she told the cabbie to take her to central London.

"Taking a cab? Where to?" Sherlock asked, his voice rising a notch.

Clara relaxed against the worn leather seats as she was taken out of Baker Street. "Like I'd tell you, a stranger after all."

"This is the second time we've spoken," Sherlock reasoned. He tried to tell something from the mysterious voice. It was a new, exhilarating problem. "I think we are at least acquaintances by now."

Clara scoffed into the phone. "And next conversation we'll be married." She paused, listening to the sound of his silence. He was probably rolling his eyes. "Have we spoken face to face? No. We're two strangers talking to each other _although_ , I do know your name."

"How about we make it even, what's your name Soufflé Girl?" He asked, watching John trod up the stairs,

"Me to know and you to find out," Clara sang, enjoying this little game of theirs. "You have to admit though, all this secretiveness is a _tiny_ but sexy." She bit her lip, watching the traffic in the misty morning air.

"If you like that sort of thing."

" _Do you_ , Mr Holmes?"

"Are you going shopping?" He asked, swiftly changing the subject. Clara laughed to herself but she dared not interrupt.

"I don't know, deduce me Sherlock."

"Tell me your name then."

"Cheater," Clara snipped. "Can't you tell a single thing from this disembodied voice? Have I got the detective in a conundrum?"

"Okay, you're female, probably living in London. Single. Recently moved here and unemployed."

"How did you get all that?" She was mildly surprised. A smiled tugged at her lips.

"So you _are_ living in London. Thank you. You've recently moved because when you were on Skype you tried to call family or friends instead of me. That's what the application is for, anyway. You're unemployed, you said so yourself that you were job hunting. As for single, I doubt anyone in a relationship flirts like you do and why would you even have a partner if you just recently moved?"

"That's it?" Clara said, stunted. Worry seeped into her brain, nagging her that it could be dangerous for someone to know so much just by her voice.

"Did I get anything wrong?" The man was on the edge of his seat.

"Umm, no."

"So how about we meet up, Soufflé Girl?" He proposed, confidence dripping off of his words.

Clara raised an eyebrow as she fished her shopping list out of her bag. "Is this your plan - show off to a stranger then ask to meet up? I thought you liked puzzles?"

"I do and so far this is brilliant." This was true. Sherlock's mind was buzzing on her every word, gleaning all the information he could possibly use. "But I want more."

"Down boy!" Clara exclaimed, her eyes popping. She paid the cabbie and jumped out, her feet firmly set on London streets.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, even though the woman couldn't see. He stopped the timer on his phone and grabbed a map of London. It had taken her eleven minutes to get into town, assuming for groceries or other wears. "Where are you right now?" He tried to sound desperate in hope of provoking an answer.

"London of course!" Clara laughed, hanging up. Sherlock would have to try a bit harder to crack Clara Oswald. She renamed his contact Cheekbones, smiling ruefully.

Sherlock himself did the same thing, naming her Soufflé Girl as he had no other name. John was messing around the kitchen, trying to figure out what they would need (just about everything) from the supermarket. Sherlock threw his phone on the couch, straightening his silky blue dressing gown and pulling the map towards him. He grabbed a highlighter and circled all the possible shopping areas in London. The list was endless. He marked out how far someone could get from each in eleven minutes and drew circle around each measurement. The detective could use his mind to calculate almost anything, analyse all the possibilities, weigh up probabilities. Sherlock pinned the map to the wall above the bottle green couch and stared at it, resting a finger on his lip. There were too many possibilities, Soufflé Girl could have gone anywhere.

"What are you doing?" John asked, sipping his cup of tea.

"Aren't you supposed to be shopping?" Sherlock said, his voice surly. He couldn't drag his eyes away from the map.

"Aren't you supposed to be at Scotland Yard?" John retorted swiftly.

"It was the neighbour, not the wife. Arrested this morning," Sherlock said blandly, dismissing the case easily.

"So who is she?" John prodded, pointing at the map.

Sherlock took a moment to realise that John was still talking to him. "Sorry?" He finally looked at his flat mate. Sherlock cringed inside, his chest refusing to breathe. John was giving him a look, a look that meant he was about to suggest something. Something highly embarrassing.

John raised an eyebrow. "That woman you talk to on the phone and on Skype. _All the time_."

"Single, unemployed female and new citizen of London," Sherlock recited his words short and clipped. "All the time is incorrect, I've talked to her twice."

"So you've never met her in person, just on the phone?" John's brows knitted together as he blew on his tea. Sherlock was talking to a woman, it was definitely a cause of concern. John had heard the conversation as he walked up the stairs. Something about soufflés and asking to meet up. Was it possible that the self-diagnosed sociopath was going on a date? It seemed absurd.

"Yep," Sherlock replied, popping the 'P' and flopping into his armchair.

"I've got a fantastic best man speech I haven't used yet," John pondered wistfully.

"Oh, shut up."


	3. Impossible Possibilities

Sherlock Holmes squinted through the microscope, he marvelled at the swirling compounds mixing together for half a second before the slight thrill wore off. He was bored, everything was boring - even John. The flatmate himself was eating toast sloppily while he typed an email excruciatingly slowly to his latest girlfriend. Poison. That's how he would murder John - not that he would. Unless John was in fact a mass murder living incognito in London. Sherlock tilted his head, considering his flatmate with cold calculativeness. He dismissed the idea as marmalade dripped down John's front. He grumbled and stalked to the kitchen for a napkin.

"What are you doing?" John asked, dapping his shirt.

"Occupy myself," Sherlock replied bluntly, his words short and clipped with annoyance.

John walked back to his laptop, ready to finish his sappy email. "Need another case, I suppose," he breathed, sliding the laptop towards him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing. "Yet London's killers all seem to be on holiday."

"Everyone has to take a break at some point," John chuckled. He closed his laptop and went back to the kitchen. "We have a new neighbour by the way; Clara Oswald or something. Living downstairs - 221C."

"Mrs Hudson must be so happy," Sherlock drawled. A new neighbour wasn't interesting enough to allow enthusiasm. He swapped around the petri dishes and stared at a cluster of tissue cells.

John clattered around making tea, trying to find a clean cup. "She could be a serial killer," John wondered aloud, his head in the cupboard under the sink.

"A serial killer that owns a cat?" Sherlock snorted. "

."

"She owns a cat-

" John bumped his head on the edge of the sink but grinned at the cup clenched in his hand.

Sherlock sighed, tilting his head to the living room. "Well I don't think we do." A muscle twitched his jaw as the small fluffy black kitten pawed its ear, in

armchair. He sneered in disgust as the animal snuggled deeper into the leather. He twisted back to the microscope, trying not to concentrate. Concentration led to deductions and deductions led to boredom as there wasn't anything worthwhile to deduce. John went over, hand outstretched to smooth the fur of the sleek feline. The kitten hissed and swiped savagely with its claws, catching John on the hand.

"Ahh, ouch," he muttered, jumping back. "I guess it won't be staying here long, will it?" Sherlock ignored him as the kitten raced off, back down the stairs. "How's your soufflé girl?"

Sherlock blinked. "Fine," he told John, his tone short and abrupt.

"She hasn't called, has she?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. No wonder Sherlock was being so surly. Sherlock grabbed some tweezers, engrossed in the contents of another petri dish. John was right though, it had been two days and still no word from the mysterious woman. "Don't get too hopeful, Sherlock," John warned. "You don't even know her."

The detective spared a glance to the maps on the wall.

. All he needed was another hint, another clue to narrow it down. "Are you trying to give me relationship advice?" Sherlock muttered, realising what John had just said.

"Yeah, yeah, I suppose," John answered, stirring his tea.

"Firstly, I don't need it, hence no romantic relationship," Sherlock retorted, his face scrunched in disgust. "Secondly, I don't think you should be giving it anyway. Look at all those girlfriends. Personally, I've had enough of whimpering women on the doorstep."

John gave Sherlock a few suggestions on where he could put those tweezers before shrugging on his coat and stalking out of the flat.

.

Clara sighed at the silly ad she had submitted into the paper a few days ago, detailing her expertise in working with children. She had checked her emails continuously and her phone had been silent as the grave. How was she ever going to get any money? It would take forever for that spot at Coal Hill High to open up. She'd be living on the streets soon enough, starving and desperate. Even Cheekbones had given up on her. Clara stared morbidly at her laptop, gosh, no wonder she had bought Oscar. The little kitten had raced into her room and hid underneath her bed. She leaned over the side, hair trailing on the floor as she spied the handful of fur. No amount of sweet talking could coax him out. Clara huffed, giving up, when her laptop blipped. Clara couldn't control her grin. "I thought you'd left me for dead!" She exclaimed, smiling at the long pale face on the screen.

"Don't get too excited," Sherlock Holmes drawled, straightening the collar of his purple shirt. He was still talking to a blank screen which irritated him. Inside he had missed talking to the invisible woman, John could only go so far. Anyway, this was a good experiment for

. Ugh, even the word sounded poisonous. What would John think of him? "How are the soufflés?"

"Oh, I made one for you but it was too beautiful to live." She pouted despairingly at the charred mess sticking out of her bin. "How is the crime solving going?"

"Nonexistent," Sherlock said, bluntly, rolling his eyes. He carried the laptop over to the wall decorated in the maps and pins dedicated to this impossible girl.

Clara frowned. "So you don't have a case? I thought all detectives just sort of...had, cases?"

"Nope," Sherlock replied, popping the 'P' in his usual fashion.

"What about me?" Clara asked, the words slipping out before she could properly think over the. She watched his face curiously as he sighed loudly. He turned the laptop around so the camera was facing his living room wall. A section was covered in maps with highlighted circles and pins sticking into the wallpaper. "Oh!" Clara said, not sure what to say. "You really have done your research, Mr Holmes." She marvelled at the paper clips glinting in the soft light and the sticky notes wafting the breeze. It was a mess, but a beautiful one. He

take his work seriously. "C'mon, Cheekbones," she jeered, grinning. "What's the answer - who am I?"

"I-I, well..." He stuttered, his left hand curling into his hair, pulling at the roots. "Maybe - er, I don't actually have the answer. There are too many possibilities. I want -

something to deduce!" He peered at the screen, jabbing the keys. He had to see something, anything in that black screen but all her had were her words. Sherlock was used to using his eyes, he felt weak without them. "This is so incredibly frustrating," he growled, "Yet the simplicity is brilliant!"

"Am I the first to stump the famous Sherlock Holmes?" She hummed, smug at his reaction. What a dramatic detective he was.

"Stump me?" Sherlock repeated. He placed the laptop down on the table and balanced his chin on the pale tips of his fingers. "No this is just a game, Soufflé Girl; a problem to solve."

"An impossible one it seems..." Clara added wistfully.

"You are the impossible one," he retorted, making her scoff. "Now can I have another clue for my puzzle?"

"The great detective asking for a clue? Not so fast Holmes - cheating isn't allowed." Clara tutted at the screen.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned the laptop back down to the collage of maps. "I have hundreds of possibilities here and nothing else to go on. I'm at a dead end." He was practically pleading but it came out all funny and strange in his mouth. He was obviously used to getting what he wanted. "I won't call you until you tell me something," he threatened, his tone switching back to normal. It was a lie though, he liked this game too much.

"Oh, stop it!" Clara said, though the idea shocked her. "We both know that idea is completely bonkers. You can't get enough of me."

"We just met - how can you be so sure?"

"Shut up or I will hang up on you Holmes."

"Stop flirting or I will hang up. Just tell me something about yourself - anything."

"Hmmm..." Clara tapped a finger on her chin thoughtfully. "I can't just tell you anything, you could be a serial killer."

"Pftt," he scorned, nose scrunching. "You're more likely a killer than me. You could have a gun underneath your bed for all I know. Though it is unlikely."

"Huh," Clara murmured, slightly disappointed that she wasn't as mysterious as she thought.

"How about you tell me where you went shopping a few days ago?" Sherlock steered the conversation onto something else. He tried not to pressure her too much. If she was stressed she'd probably resort to outrageous flirting or something more aggressive, like slamming down her screen.

Clara paused. Should she? "You said you had hundreds of possibilities right?"

"Three thousand, nine hundred and sixteen."

"Right. So even if I told you..."

"There would still be too many avenues of inquiry - I wouldn't be able to narrow it down. It would take months if I went around knocking on doors."

Clara tilted her head, rubbing her lips together, studying the face of the detective. "Piccadilly," she whispered, closing the laptop lid with a whimsical smile. Was it terrible that she was really excited about this odd game they were playing?

Unknown to her, the detective in the room above paced across the carpet happily, crossing out streets on his maps and circling others. The games was on; Sherlock was one step further.


	4. Revelations

" _...I don't understand..._ " - John Watson

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Clara Oswald was a bundle of excitement when she picked up the phone as Sherlock rang. 'Hello,' he said in that deep voice waiting for an answer. Instead he was returned with a squeal and laughter.

'Guess what, guess what, guess what?!' Clara squeaked.

'Someone exciting a presume that you will end up telling me anyway. Your tone is trying to get me excited too, not as a question. I think it would be something important by the way your yelling on the phone.

'I've got the best job in the universe!' Clara shouted while she jumped up and down in her bed.

'Engaged to royalty?' Sherlock asked trying to push the woman into sharing. She would have to forget about keeping some things a secret someday.

Clara laughed as she finally flopped down on her bed amongst the purple and navy cushions and rugs. 'That's not even a real job,' she said as Oscar the black kitten snuggled up in the crook of her elbow. He yawned loudly as Clara tickled his ears.

'Well in the marriage world it is. You would have just gained the highest trust and wealth in Britain.'

'And what do you know about marriage?' she retorted making Sherlock fall silent. 'That's what I thought.'

'So what is this job?' Sherlock asked slightly embarrassed.

'I'm not saying a thing,' she replied and grinned at her ceiling. Oscar chose that moment to start meowing loudly like a baby lion attempting to roar.

'You have a cat!' The detective exclaimed rising up from his leather chair and striding over to his maps on the wall. He muttered the sentence over and over as the cogs in his mind whirled. In one fluid motion he grabbed John's laptop and opened up his internet server. 'You have a cat,' Sherlock repeated.

'I gave you another clue didn't I?' Clara wondered. How long would it be till he knew her? But Sherlock wasn't listening. Instead he was muttering 'brilliant' under his breath till as he typed and scrolled through the web. Suddenly slamming the laptop lid he rose up again and crossed out more points on his wall of papers. 'Are you still there Cheekbones?'

'Oh yes,' he breathed still focused on the badly wallpapered wall.

'What was that you went all, weird...'

'Another deduction to narrow it down. Another clue to open a door.' Sherlock breathed as if he had just regained the function.

'Okay, thanks for the poetry, but do you know who I am?'

'Not yet, I need more, I need...' Sherlock stopped and stared at the wall. He was onto something. 'Mycroft.'

Clara's phone beeped as he hung up leaving her confused and bewildered. Had he said Mycroft? No it couldn't be...think Clara think! Oh. She realised with surprise that she had just been employed by Sherlock's brother. She also realised that she had to go see this man tomorrow morning about the job.

'What do you mean you need Mycroft's help?' John asked confused the next day. Sherlock never needed help.

'Don't be ridiculous John, I said I needed to see him!' The detective said running his long pale hands through his hair in frustration. 'But he's not even in the bloody country!'

'Have you tried calling him' John said hands on hips. It was like looking after a five year old some days. Holmes held up his phone screen which held the log. Mycroft had been dialled eleven times without any pick up. 'How do you know he isn't in the country?'

'That's what his secretary said.'

John rolled his eyes. 'And when has his secretary ever told you where he was?'

'When he was - oh!' Sherlock's eyes grew wide as something dawned on him.

'And you say I'm slow...' John muttered. Mycroft never told Sherlock where he was. If Mycroft didn't want his brother prying he would have told the secretary to do something about it. Therefore the man was definitely in the country probably in his office drinking tea.

'Don't flatter yourself Watson.'

They both took a cab to the Diogenes Club, where Mycroft was probably at when he didn't want to be disturbed. They drove in silence though John was confused about this desperate drive. 'Is this about that soufflé girl?' He asked knitting his eyebrows together.

Sherlock didn't say anything and tried to mentally will the cabbie to drive faster. Last time he and the woman had spoken she hadn't contradicted his comment of being engaged to royalty badly. Sherlock deduced that she hadn't actually had any affiliation of the royal household because there was nothing in the news about any girlfriends or what not. The second best thing to royalty was Mycroft as he was basically the government. Could it be true that Mycroft had employed the soufflé girl? Only one way to find out.

John had this strange smile on his face as they neared their destination. It gave the impression that he knew something his mate didn't. 'What? What are you smiling at?' Holmes asked searching his friend's face.

'Nothing, nothing,' the doctor sniffed. 'Just that you have taken quite an interest in this woman.'

'What about it?'

'Well, I'm happy,' John said genuinely though it gave an edge op that he wanted to say something else. Sherlock's brow creased as he thought over his colleague's words.

'Don't start John.' Sherlock said sighing horribly.

'Okay, okay, okay...' the doctor said with his hands up in surrender. 'I'll just be quiet now.'

'You've told Lestrade haven't you?'

'No, well. Of course... Okay maybe I did.'

'I'm guessing you told Donovan and Anderson too?'

John gave a tiny nod trying to be sympathetic to his friend. Though he wasn't about to tell Sherlock that he had written it on his blog. The amount of followers and comments skyrocketed to the news of 'Something strange has been going on with Sherlock lately. He has been skyping and talking on the phone to a woman which he calls the soufflé girl. Don't know what that means. But the thing is he doesn't even know what she looks like, apparently it's all a game to find out this woman's identity. I think Holmes is a bit attached now. They talk a lot.'. Apparently everyone thought he was gay, and some still do.

'Oh God you put it on your blog didn't you!' Sherlock exclaimed turning to glare at his friend as they paid the driver and exited the cab.

'This way?' He asked pointing to the main doors. The detective didn't say anything as he strode round the back of the building while flicking the collar of his jacket up.

By going the back way they could enter Mycroft's office via the fire escape doors where they would go unnoticed and could easily bypass all the secretaries and office workers with their annoying questions. Sherlock really wasn't in the mood for that today. They entered and strode quietly through the building straight to the brother's office where Sherlock opened the door and entered without knocking. 'Hello dearest brother,' he greeted warmly with a cold smile, the usual hello really.

'What do you want Sherlock?' The older Holmes asked flicking his newspaper while sitting in his leather chair. He wore a grey suit with the usual sour expression on his face. 'I'm expecting someone about now.'

'Have you employed any newly moved, unmarried, cat loving and unemployed females lately?' He asked bluntly staring his older sibling down. Mycroft raised an eyebrow but didn't get to say anything as a loud female voice said 'Hello? Is a Mister Holmes here somewhere?'

Mycroft sighed and got up to open the door. The old men in the club were probably fretting by now. No one was allowed to talk in that room. The door opened up just framing the moment when a dark haired girl in a maroon dress punched one of the guards in the face. Blood spurted out of the man's nose as the woman stared at her hand with wild doe-like eyes. John stepped through with his mouth wide open in surprise. 'Why the hell did you do that?' He cried going to the victim and checking for serious breaks.

'He had it coming,' the woman shrugged. 'He tried to manhandle me'.

'Miss Oswald, if you please.' Mycroft interrupted curtly motioning to the room behind him. 'Jeffrey, go get yourself cleaned up.' He added to the bloke holding his bloody nose with both hands. Then, with an apologetic smile to the elderly inhabitants of the room Mycroft closed the door once the woman and the doctor had entered through.

Sherlock was frozen in the room a few paces from the doorway. He had seen everything as his eyes had been glued to the woman. Deductions rebounded in his head making his mind nearly burst with the information. The small black hairs on her knees said she owned a small cat, flour on her elbow from recent cooking, in twenties or early thirties, organised, probably a control freak, oh and that voice! It was her, the soufflé girl. Sherlock was sure of it.

'Are you alright Sherlock?' The doctor asked watching the direction of his friends gaze. Mycroft was talking quickly and quietly to the woman about the rules of the room she had just entered.

'Fine,' He said stiffly still watching. Would she recognise him? Was this the end to their game?

'Oh my God!' John exclaimed suddenly making his eyebrows jump up and a smile widen his face. 'That's her isn't it?'

Sherlock watched on as his flatmate broke down into chuckles. The detective must have missed something because John was laughing so hard he was close to tears. 'What's got into you?' Sherlock asked looking disgusted at his friend.

'Oh nothing it's just...' John giggled. 'You have been trying to figure out the identity of our neighbour!'

'What?!'

John nodded then tried to control himself as Mycroft came over with the woman. 'Whatever you two have come for get it over with, I have a client to see.' Mycroft frowned.

'Don't worry, we won't be long,' Sherlock trailed off finally getting the woman's attention. She had been looking in her hand bag for something and finally pulled it out, a phone to be exact. The action also brought her face to face. Her brown eyes grazed over his but then flashed back as she gasped. Sherlock smiled, meaning he tried to look happy. Which he was but the art of showing it however...

'Oh my god!' She whispered putting a hand to her mouth. 'You're real! You're actually properly real!'

Sherlock seemed briefly stunted by this. 'Oh course I'm real! Why shouldn't I be?'

'I don't know why I said that. Hang on, how do you know who I am?'

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. 'Go on Sherlock, show off but spare us the drama.'

The younger brother just glared at his sibling. 'Because the best job in Britain would have something to do with him,' Sherlock explained glancing at Mycroft.

'How did you know I would be here then?' She questioned peering wide eyed at her Internet friend.

'I didn't,' Sherlock admitted. 'I came here to ask Mycroft who he had employed recently.'

It was brown eyes on grey till Mycroft interrupted. 'Sherlock why don't you explain, I'm quite lost.'

'How heart warming, Mycroft is lost.'

'Behave Sherlock' John muttered underneath his breath.

'Or what?'

'Or I'll tell everyone on my blog that you've been skyping a sixty year old porn addict.'

Sucking a breath knowing John would do that, Sherlock spoke politely as he could restrain himself. 'I've been talking to this woman over the phone and on Skype for the past few weeks,' He said stiffly straightening his suit.

'Another game for you to play Sherlock?' Mycroft asked with a venomous smile.

'Something like that,' Holmes murmured.

'Except they are neighbours' John butted in. Mycroft chuckled making his brother scowl.

'I don't think we've properly met,' the woman interjected between the daggers flying from the siblings. She could hardly believe it herself, though she remembered John had fixed her plumbing. She stuck out her hand for Sherlock to shake while saying 'Clara Oswald, pleased to meet you again Mr Holmes.'

The detective took her small hand in his large one and shook it. 'Pleasures all mine,' he replied quickly in a clipped tone. 'See you round Miss Oswald,' he added in a deep voice making Mycroft sigh. Sherlock pulled on his famous coat, flicked his collar and whirled around opening the double doors to the corridor all in a dramatic and bold fashion. 'Come along John.'

The doctor said his goodbyes and followed out muttering about bloody show offs and dickheads.

'He really is a drama queen isn't he?' Clara asked dragging her eyes away from the figure in the long coat and turning back to her employer.

Mycroft sighed for the thousandth time. 'Wait till you're on a case with him.'

'Sorry, what? Me? Solving a case with Sherlock Holmes?' She asked surprised.

'Who else is he going to show off to?'


	5. Boom! Crash!

" _Run you clever boy..._ " - Oswin Oswald

* * *

Clara's morning was going great really. A long bath followed by a hearty breakfast was definitely a good start. Well, till someone started shooting in the upstairs flat. With her hands flattened over her ears, Clara rushed up the stairs in her black boots and tights somehow knowing that this was her newly found neighbour, Sherlock Holmes. 'What the _hell_ are you doing?' She heard John Watson yell from above.

'Bored,' replied Holmes and continued to fire bullets at a yellow smiley face painted on the wall.

John squinted at him. 'What?'

'Bored, bored, bored!' The man yelled firing behind him and round his back. The poor wallpaper was definitely taking a hammering. Clara kept to the wall as Sherlock in his pajamas and blue dressing gown twisted to and fro.

'So you took it out on the wall?' Clara exclaimed looking at the wall, man and gun, blinking in disbelief.

'Oh hello Clara,' Sherlock greeted blandly though his eyes twinkled at her. John grabbed the gun from his hand as the detective glared at the yellow face. 'Don't know what's up with the criminal classes,' he sniffed, 'lucky I'm not one of them.'

'So you took it out on the wall,' Clara repeated taking a seat in Sherlock's leather chair as the man ran a long finger over the painted smile.

'Oh the wall had it coming,' he muttered then suddenly flopped onto the leather couch underneath his target practice. He gave her a funny look as she made herself at home in _his_ chair. The woman raised an eyebrow as he frowned at her, almost daring him to question it.

John glanced between the two of them before shrugging off his coat. It seemed like they knew each other already. John supposed they did as they were talking before they really knew each other. Strange though, Sherlock hadn't taken down his map about her though it had been moved to a spot above the mantelpiece. 'What about the Russian case?'

'Open and shut domestic murder, not worth my time,' Holmes stated staring up at the ceiling.

'Shame,' sighed Clara picking up a discarded magazine. 'Mrs Hudson was raving about it all day.'

'I don't solve cases for Mrs Hudson,' he retorted watching John make dramatic hand gestures at the mess in the kitchen.

'Should put that on a t shirt,' she teased sparing Holmes a glance. His eyes matched her brown ones for a second before going back to inspecting the ceiling.

John headed towards the fridge asking about food before suddenly exclaiming 'Oh fu...' As he opened the doors. The doctor slammed them shut and slumped against them. John opened them again and stares at the severed head which gazed blankly into the room.

'Oh my god,' Clara whispered giving a frightened glance to Sherlock.

'Its a head,' John stated after closing the doors again. 'A bloody _head_!'

'Just tea for me, thanks,' Holmes asked softly ignoring the bewildered glances of his neighbour and flatmate. 'You don't mind do you?'

'You have a _human_ _head_ , in your _fridge!_ ' Clara gaped completely forgetting about the magazine in her hands.

Sherlock frowned and sat up a bit. 'Well where else was I going to put it?' He asked exasperated gesturing with his hand. 'I got it from St Barts, I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death.' John buried his face in his hands as his friend waved a pale hand in the vague direction of a laptop. 'I see you've written up the taxi driver case.'

'Er, yes,' John breathed gathering his composure as he walked over to his red chair and plonked himself down.

'Study in Pink, yes?'

'Well, there was a lot of pink. Pink case, pink phone, pink lady - did you like it?' The doctor asked directing his question at both the inhabitants in the room.

Clara grinned though gave the fridge an uneasy glance. 'Oh yes, it sounded quite exciting!' She gushed.

Sherlock picked up a book off the coffee table and fanned through it. 'Erm, no,' he replied not making eye contact.

'I thought you'd be flattered!' John reasoned, frankly surprised.

'Flattered?!' Exclaimed Sherlock raising an index finger and suddenly sitting up. '"Sherlock sees through every one and everything in seconds. What's incredible though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is."'

'Now hang on!' John interrupted 'I didn't mean it like that...'

'Oh so you meant "spectacularly ignorant" in a _nice_ way?! Look it doesn't matter to me who the prime minister is...'

'I know...' His friend said softly though clearly frustrated.

'...or who's sleeping with who...'

'Or if the earth goes round the sun..' John added quietly.

'Oh not that again,' the detective sighed. 'It's not _important_!'

'Not impor...' He started then shifted round to face is flat mate head on. 'That's primary school stuff!'

'You seriously didn't know that?' Clara asked with an amused smile on her lips. The arguments between the two men were quite entertaining. Sherlock pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes sighing heavily.

'Look, if I ever did I've obviously deleted it,' he reasoned though it was hard to take him seriously when he was in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

'Deleted it?' Clara asked confused just as John asked the same thing.

Holmes pointed to his temple with one finger and tried to explain. 'This is my hard drive,' he said slowly, becoming flustered. 'And it only makes sense to put things in there that are _really_ useful.'

John seemed on the verge of saying something and he struggled to contain himself. The doctor bit his lip but it just wouldn't work. 'But it's the _solar_ _system_!'

Sherlock buried his face in his hands and Clara tried to cover up her giggle by coughing. 'Oh who cares John! What does it matter? So we go round the sun! If we went round the moon or _round and round the garden like a teddy bear_ , it wouldn't make any difference! All the matter is the work! Put that it your blog or better still stop inflicting your opinions on the world!' Sherlock finalised. He ruffled his hair, glared frustratedly at his friend then curled up in a ball on the couch and faced the wall. John stood up muttering about needing some air. He stalked out of the room without a glance.

'Well you know how to make first impressions,' Clara scolded Holmes just as Mrs Hudson came up the stairs. At least Sherlock had the decency to acknowledge the older woman as she plonked shopping bags on the counter in the kitchen.

'Did you two have a little domestic?' She asked making Clara cough something that sounded a lot like 'drama queens'. Holmes swerved round and glared at her. With flailing limbs he stood up and took the shortest route to the window over looking the street. This involved walking straight over the coffee table. Clara watched him trying to see what was behind those grey eyes.

'Look at that Clara,' Sherlock said softly watching John crossing the street. 'Quiet, calm, peaceful' he sighed then drew a long breath. 'Isn't it hateful?'

The woman just watched him sadly. He seemed so lonely to Clara yet she, John and Mrs Hudson were there right? Sherlock was different, there was no mistaking that. Clara agreed when he had said that the work mattered but it wasn't the only thing. John Watson wasn't just a flatmate, he was a friend too. The woman got up and stood next to the man.

'John'll come round, Cheekbones,' Clara sighed watching the empty street. 'Wait till you have another case and he will be all over it.'

'Oh yes!' Agreed Mrs Hudson from the kitchen who was finishing unpacking the groceries. 'A nice murder - that will cheer you up!' But the landlady couldn't help but notice the picturesque image of the two adults, framed by the window. _Or a nice girl, Sherlock_ \- she thought giddily.

'Can't come too soon,' Sherlock replied wistfully. Clara walked over to the mantle piece that still held all of the information and strange maps with pins about her. She pondered it, dragging a finger over the drawings and crossed out parts of the map of London.

Mrs Hudson chuckled and started dragging her bags towards the door. She stopped and gasped when she saw the damaged wall. 'Hey! What have you done to my bloody wall?' the landlady exclaimed turning towards Sherlock who was now beside her. The man quirked a smile as he admired his handiwork. 'I'm putting this on your rent young man!' And with that Mrs Hudson stormed down the stairs making Clara chuckle. She had a soft spot for the older woman. Clara pulled out her phone from her dress's pocket and started typing.

'Who are you texting?' Sherlock asked still staring at his target practice.

'Your brother,' she replied still typing. 'He's paying me for checking on you. Good money too.'

'What have you told him?'

Clara sent the text and smiled. 'That there's a severed head in your fridge.'

'What did he say back?' asked Holmes as a ding was audible from the iPhone.

'All is well'.

Sherlock sniffed then stretched. He brought his long arms up over his head till his joints cracked. He gave the yellow smiley face an over dramatic grin and turned to say something to Clara when an all mighty explosion knocked both of them to the floor. The windows shattered and tables overturned. Clara was lying motionless on the ground near the just as lifeless detective.


	6. Sibling Rivalry

With a mighty cough and gasp, Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes. Glass was sprayed around him and plaster dust slowly fell to the ground. He coughed and tried to make sense of his surroundings. Sherlock remembered standing up then a clap like thunder, then blackness. What had happened? He asked himself then he started glancing round frantically. 'Clara?' He coughed as he scrambled up. 'Clara!'

The detective spotted her then knelt next to her. The woman was curled up with her fridge in disarray yet still framing her face. Sherlock cupped her face and patted her hair. 'Clara? Clara can you hear me?' He asked desperately. He moved to feel her pulse and found a steady tattoo beneath his fingers. Some relief came with that. The woman groaned and her eyelids fluttered open briefly.

'Sherlock?' She breathed disorientated and not quite awake. The man didn't say anything but scooped her up and trodden down the stairs carefully. When he reached her door she kicked it open with one foot and shouldered inside. Clara was laid down gently on her bed now quite asleep. Sherlock was lost now and asked himself _what would John do?_ The doctor would probably start doing health checks but Sherlock was no medicine man so he scratched that thought. _What would Mrs Hudson do?_ Ahh, that was something Sherlock could accomplish.

He walked out of the flat and into Mrs Hudson's where he pillaged a plate of biscuits and the vase of flowers from her kitchen table. Back inside 221c, the detective placed the plate on the woman's bedside table and arranged the vase nearby. Sherlock picked up a biscuit for himself but found it disgusting. The uneaten half was placed back on the pile. Feeling diabolically normal from this little act, the detective trooped back upstairs, utterly bewildered by himself.

.

'Sherlock! Sherlock?' John called as he pounded up the stairs. He feared the worse from hearing about the explosion on Sarah's telly this morning. Would Sherlock, Clara and Mrs Hudson be alright? As he entered the living room, Johns gaze was drawn to the boarded up windows and glass on the floor then he saw Sherlock plucking his violin while sitting in his chair.

'John,' the detective greeted clearly annoyed at something. He glared towards John's chair apparently unharmed in the explosion. Mycroft who was sitting in the doctor's chair sparedJohn a glance before eyeing off his brother.

'I was it on the telly. Are you okay?' John asked his flatmate, rather concerned.

'Hmm, oh what?' Sherlock said looking at the glass and paper all over the floor. 'Oh that. Fine. Gas leak, apparently.' Now turning to his brother while plucking at his violin he uttered 'I can't.'

'Can't?' Mycroft replied. Clara then entered the living room quietly, her brows furrowed in confusion. 'Miss Oswald,' Mycroft greeted before turning back expectantly to the man across from him.

'Um, how did I get down to my flat?' The woman asked looking at the three men. John shrugs and turns to Sherlock raising his eyebrows. 'And the flowers and...biscuits?' She asked around again.

Sherlock pointedly ignores his flatmate and turns to his brother with a sigh. 'I can't spare the time. The stuff I have on is just too big.'

John looked across in disbelief at the fact that Sherlock had nothing to do and the speculation that he was responsible for the flowers. Clara sat on the leather couch stepping around all the glass and picked up a book from the floor. 'Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance' Mycroft insisted.

'How's the diet?' Sherlock asked sulkily while flicking the strings on his instrument. This made Clara's wide brown eyes glance up between the siblings.

' _Fine_.' The older brother spat. 'Perhaps you can get through him, John?'

The doctor who was currently investigating the damage outside turned around. 'What?'

'My brother is being very intransigent today' he sighed.

'If you're so keen,' Sherlock interrupted. 'Why don't _you_ investigate?'

'No, no, no, no, no, I can't possibly be away from the office with the Korean elections so...' He trailed off looking at the three interested pairs of eyes. 'Well you don't need to know about that, do you? Anyway cases like these..' The man grimaced, 'require _legwork_.'

'Oh no! Not the _legwork_...' Clara muttered too low for anyone to hear, the words were dripping in sarcasm. She rubbed at a bump that had formed on the back of her head.

Sherlock looked irritated and Clara rushed to stop another sarcastic comment from the detective for his brother. 'How was Sarah's, John?' She asked brightly, deterring the strained topic of the conversation.

'Yes, how was the lilo?' Sherlock added, looking at John who was rubbing his neck.

'It was the sofa' Mycroft corrected wistfully while checking his pocket watch. Clara stared incredulously between the two 'deduction fanatics' wondering how they knew. Sherlock looked briefly at John then agrees.

'How?' John started then muttered something ending his question. He sat down on the coffee table while Mycroft smiled at him.

'What's it like living with my brother? Hellish, I imagine?'

'I'm never bored' the doctor replied simply.

'Good, that's good isn't it?' Mycroft said, smiling strangely. He got up making Sherlock flick his bow at him. Mycroft handed a folder to his brother but Sherlock stared back stubbornly. Mycroft frowned. With a sigh he handed the papers to a startled John. 'Andrew West, also known as Westie. Civil servant, found dead on Battersea Station's tracks this morning.'

'Jumped in front of a train?' John asked perking up at a possible case.

'Seems the logical assumption'

'But...?' Clara said making all eyes turn to her in surprise.

'But?' The older Holmes inquired politely.

'Well you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident. You are a _Holmes_ ' she replied, glancing between the brothers. Sherlock smirked noisily while applying something to his bow strings.

'We had new missile defence system - the Bruce Paddington plans' Mycroft informed them as John peered into the folder and Sherlock remained ignorant. 'The plans were on a memory stick'

The doctor sniggered quietly. 'Well that wasn't very smart was it?' He said. Sherlock smiled.

'It's not the only copy' Mycroft added.

'Top secret?' Clara asked.

'Very,' He replied. 'They went missing a few days ago and we believe West has taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk them falling into the wrong hands.' He turned to his brother and said forcefully, 'We need those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you.'

'I'd like to see you try,' Sherlock replied quickly, raising his violin ready to play. Clara quirked a smile. She loved seeing the brothers annoy each other, it was always very amusing.

Mycroft lent towards him and said threateningly 'Think it over.' He then shook John's hand in departure and nodded his head to Clara before Sherlock serenaded him out of the room.

The irritating sequence of notes stopped abruptly though not ending John's glare. 'Why'd you lie?' He asked. 'You've got nothing on - not a single case. That's why the bloody wall took a pounding!'

'Why shouldn't I?' Sherlock retorted angrily.

'Oh I see,' John nodded. 'Sibling rivalry.'

Before the detective could respond with a nasty remark his phone buzzed. Sherlock answered it and after a short conversation exclaimed, 'Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?'

'If you want me to.'

Sherlock picked up his coat saying, 'Of course! I'd be lost without my blogger!' He started walking down the stairs before calling out to the woman still sitting on his lounge. 'Come along, Clara!'

Clara bounced up and hurried after them, not wanting to miss an opportunity like this.


	7. St Barts

" _Maybe it's just my type_ " ~ Molly Hooper

* * *

Clara Oswald eyes followed the black mob of hair and dramatic coat as Sherlock Holmes walked through Scotland Yard like he owned the place. They had taken a cab directly to the place and now seemed in search of whoever 'Lestrade' was. Clara was very excited, her only adventures were usually in novels. This whole solving mysterious murders got her adrenaline pumping though she told herself not to get too hyped up. They had only really just met, even if they seemed like they knew each other already. Clara found it fun flirting, teasing and watching Sherlock's arguments. She had to remind herself that she wasn't, whatever John was. She knew the two men had something special, though not in _that_ way.

All three walked into an office where a grey haired, friendly looking man sat at a desk. 'Ah Lestrade, what happened?' Sherlock fired straight off.

'Hang on a minute, who's this?' Lestrade asked motioning to Clara.

The woman smiled and held out her hand. 'Clara Oswald, just tagging along for the day.'

'Greg Lestrade.' The officer shook it and smiled. 'Tag along with these lunatics? I can't fathom why?'

'Oh don't worry. His brother is paying me to keep an eye on him' Clara laughed grinning at Sherlock. The detective cleared his throat clearly impatient to get on with it.

'On right' Lestrade said and straightened his jacket. 'You like the funny cases, the strange ones right?'

'Obviously'.

'Well that explosion...'

'Yes' Sherlock said glaring at a darker skinned woman who walked in laden with files.

'Who's this?' She asked looking at the detective, 'another partner in crime?'

'Er no, I'm paid to supervise him,' Clara interrupted not liking the attitude of the woman at all.

'Must be good cash, I'm Sally Donovan' the two women shook hands as Clara also introduced herself. Sherlock sighed loudly spurring the man in charge to continue.

'So the explosion...'

'Yes.'

'Well not exactly,' said Lestrade. 'It was made to look like a gas leak'.

'What?' Exclaimed John wondering why anyone would be compelled to set off a bomb in Baker Street. He smiled to himself knowing one reason why _everyone_ would want to and glanced briefly at his flatmate. Sherlock was now staring at a quite envelope in Greg's office.

'All that was left was a strong box - a _very_ _strong_ box - and inside was that' he gestured towards the letter.

'You haven't opened it?' Sherlock questioned picking up the paper.

'Well it's addressed to you isn't it?' Lestrade said. 'We've x-rayed it, it's not booby trapped.'

Sherlock mumbled about how reassuring that was then started looking at the envelope. In blue pen his name was written in cursive writing across the front. The detective started sniffing it and exchanged a few words with John about it while Clara and Lestrade talked.

'So how is it you met Holmes?' He asked crossing his arms and peering at the other men.

'Oh I got a job from his brother before Sherlock and I met but that isn't starting for ages. I also just moved in at 221c so I think the other Holmes is taking it for granted. I'm kind of babysitting those two for a while' she informed him, leaving out the Skype bit. That sounded too weird to strangers.

'Yeah, how's that going?'

'Oh there was a severed head in their fridge yesterday,' Clara said nonchalantly, like she was talking about the weather. Lestrade raised his eyebrows and blew out a long breath of air. He was surprised yet, not surprised.

'Is that the, the pink phone?' John asked as Sherlock drew put a pink cased iPhone from the letter.

'From a study in pink?' Clara asked staring excitedly at the object.

'Well it's obviously not the same phone...hang on, A study in pink?' Sherlock exclaimed naming the title of John's blog. 'You read his blog?'

'Of course I read his blog!' She retorted crossing her arms defensively.

'We _all_ do, did you really not know the earth goes round the sun?' Lestrade asked leaning back as he teased the man. Donovan sniggered from the corner and Clara hid her smile behind her hands.

Sherlock glared at all of them before turning back to the phone. 'This isn't the same phone, though made to look like it,' He murmured looking at the connection sockets. 'Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to do so, which means your blog has a far wider readership,' he spat throwing a disdainful glare a John who ignored it.

Sherlock switched the phone on and an automated voice spoke of having one new voice message. The message plays but has no sound and everyone leans in closer. Four short beeps sound from the device followed by a longer one. Clara looks confused at the detective who gives her a glance. 'Is that it?' She asks, baffled.

'No, that's _not_ it.' Sherlock replied looking at an image on the phone.

Lestrade who had been leaning over his shoulder said 'Well what are we supposed to make of that? A bloody real estates photo and the Greenwich pips?!'

The detective gazes into the distance for a second then comes to a conclusion. 'It's a warning.'

'A warning?' John asked,very confused though used to this sort of thing.

'Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, pips. It's a warning that's it's going to happen again.' Sherlock informs them brandishing the phone a Lestrade. 'Clara I'm going to need to see your bedroom.'

'Excuse me, _what_?' She replies very shocked. Her mind was whirling with assumptions.

'Sherlock, what's going to happen?' John interrupts trying to get a straight answer as the other man starts to leave.

'Boom!'

Clara sighed and walked after the eccentric man mumbling about show offs and drama queens.

Back in Baker Street Sherlock rounded on 221c and tried to open the door like he owned the place. He looked back at John and Lestrade briefly before shouting for Clara. The woman had been chatting with Mrs Hudson and grumbled over to the detective. 'Keys, now.' He ordered holding out an expectant hand.

'Why?' She asked meeting his firm gaze with her own brown eyes.

'I need see inside you flat,' He said like it was obvious.

'No you _want_ to see inside my flat. Now tell me why or I'll assume the worst,' Clara replied simply.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'On this pink phone,' he said waving the screen at her. 'Is a picture of the inside of this flat before you moved in. Now hand over the keys.'

Clara pushed past him and unlocked the door with a stubborn set of her jaw. 'Maybe you should have a key so you can just go in wherever and whenever you please,' She snapped not liking how the man sauntered through her doorway like he lived there.

'Yes, maybe I should,' he replied making the woman bristle.

'That was sarcasm, Sherlock,' John muttered not liking the argument.

'Yes I know, I already have a key. Moulded it myself,' Sherlock whispered back making his friend splutter about personal space. The detective surveyed the rooms bit finding anything if interest. The walls hadn't been repainted, there were dirty coffee mugs placed around the house and a black kitten pawed at the hem of his pants.

Sherlock twirled around to face the owner of the apartment. 'Was there anything abnormal about this place when you first moved in?'

Clara shrugged and tried to think. 'Well there were a pair of shoes, just sitting in the corner,' She offered crossing her arms defensively.

'And what did you do with the shoes?' Sherlock asked and Clara pointed at the bin in the corner. Like a bloodhound on a scent, Sherlock bounded over to the can and dumped it on the floor.

'Hey!?' Clara exclaimed though watched as they man knelt down amongst the rubbish mostly tissues and receipts. Sherlock knelt so close that he was almost touching the laces with his nose when a phone rang, breaking the silence. He blinks then suddenly jumps up nearly knocking Lestrade over and took out the pink phone. The caller ID read 'NUMBER BLOCKED'.

'Hello?' Sherlock asked softly. He seemed to listen briefly before saying 'who is this?' Clara watched him, listening intensely. Those eyes almost let her see the cogs turning in his brain. His eyes glazed over as he murmured 'the curtain rises.'

'What?' John asks, wanting to know what his flatmate was hearing.

'Nothing.' Sherlock uttered.

'No, what did you mean?'

The detective half tuned himself towards the doctor saying 'I've been expecting this for some time.' The phone went dead and Sherlock looked at it in his palm before sighing and stuff in it in his pocket. He then recounted the phone call to the audience of three. Clara's eyes grew steadily wider in disbelief. Lestrade crossed his arms soaking in the information. John just sort of stood there.

'A crying woman, strapped to a bomb, reading some maniac message preparing to go boom if you don't solve this mystery in twelve hours,' Clara summed up her mouth agape. 'Well we have to find her don't we?'

'It's not that simple,' John breathed like he really wished it was.

'John's right.' Greg sighed. 'Who knows when the nutter makes her explode.'

'Well we can't just leave her there!' Clara exclaimed stubbornly turning on the police officer.

'As long as we solve this case everyone should be safe.' Lestrade reasoned. 'Isn't that right Sherlock?'

Holmes grunted something in response that sounded a lot like maybe. Sherlock picked up the shoes and grabbed the woman's wrist as she was about to argue more. With the shoes in one hand and Clara in the other, the detective walked out into Baker Street and hailed a cab.

.

Saint Bartholomew's hospital was the average clean and disinfectant smelling place. Clara sat on a lab stool while propping her chin up on her fists. She regarded Sherlock closely as he looked at the shoes and did important things with an important looking computer thing and a microscope. He was probably doing something basic but his suit and expression made it look genius. John wandered restlessly between the benches wanting answers. 'So who'd you suppose it was?' The doctor asked as a phone trilled somewhere.

'Hmm?' Sherlock replied absently focused on his microscope. He didn't respond to the text alert.

'The woman on the phone, the crying lady.'

'Oh her, she doesn't matter - just a hostage. No leads there.'

Clara rolled her eyes with a sort of rage. 'I wasn't thinking about leads, for God's sake!' John said sounding exasperated.

'Well, you're not going to be much use to her., The detective stated watching more no match results come up on his computer screen.

'You are _trying_ to trace the call though?' Clara asked concerned.

'The bomber is too smart for that,' Sherlock replied as another alert went off. 'Pass me my phone.'

John looked wildly round the room for the device. 'Where is it?'

'Jacket.'

John's whole body stiffened as Sherlock said this. With his back ramrod straight, the doctor walked over to his flatmate. Clara noted his "I'm _actually_ going to kill him" expression as John grabbed Sherlock ruffle and stuffed his hand in the inside pocket of the dark blazer. ' _Careful_ ' the detective muttered angrily. Clara watched on with raised eyebrows and a curious stare.

John struggled to keep his temper as he checked the phone. 'Text from your brother.' He informed Sherlock.

'Delete it.'

'Delete it?'

'Missile plans are out of the country, nothing we can do about it.'

'Must be important, well Mycroft thinks so anyway.' John replied. 'He's texted you eight times.'

Sherlock raised his head in annoyance. 'Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?' He complained to no one in particular.

'His what?' Clara asked.

'Mycroft never texts when he can talk' the detective sighed glancing at her. 'Look, Andrew West stole the plans and got his head smashed in trying to sell them. End of story. The only mystery is why my brother is so determined to bore me while someone else is being so delightfully interesting.'

'Try and remember there is a woman here who may die _Sherlock,_ ' Clara said so forcefully that he actually dragged his eyes from his microscope.

'Shouldn't we worry about her right now?' John added.

'Why? This hospital is full of people dying, _doctor_. How about you go cry beside them and see what good it does.' Sherlock snapped. John looked away in disbelief. He wanted to vent his anger by punching that good-for-nothing-detective-who-is-a-complete-dick but had to keep his temper in check. Sherlock himself almost fist pumped the air as his computer flashed 'SEARCH COMPLETE' just as Molly Hooper came in the room.

'Any luck?' Molly asked brightly. She has her hair in a side pony tail looking very happy.

'Oh yes,' Sherlock breathed triumphantly. Molly came over to peer at the screen when a man in his thirties also came through the door. He had short brown hair and was wearing casual clothes.

'Oh uh, sorry,' He said awkwardly intending to leave again.

'Jim, hi!' Molly held up a hand to stop him. 'Come in, come in!' Sherlock looks her up and down, the action only noticed by Clara. He was making his own deductions. 'Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes.' Molly introduced them happily. The man just smiled awkwardly.

John lookedround blankly getting ready to be introduced too. 'And, er sorry...' Molly tries to introduce but forgot his name.

'John Watson. Hi.'

'Hi,' Jim replied.

Molly then saw Clara and smiled politely though looked suspiciously between the detective and the woman. Clara ignores it and smiled. 'I'm Clara Oswald, don't think we've met'

'No, we haven't,' Molly said. 'I'm Molly Hooper. I work in the morgue here. This is Jim.'

Clara and the man exchanged polite greetings before Jim turned to Sherlock. 'So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes, Molly's told me all about you,' he gushed.

'I bet she has,' Clara said hiding it under a coughing fit that just seemed to take her. Sherlock's eyes flicked up to meet hers, his filled with amusement and embarrassment.

'Jim works in IT upstairs. That's how we met, office romance,' Molly informed them. The couple giggled at this.

Sherlock glanced briefly at the other man and said 'Gay.'

Clara _actually_ went into a coughing fit this time. 'Sorry, what?' Molly asked her face falling.

'Er, Nothing,' Sherlock said realising what he had just done. 'Um, hey,' he said to Jim plastering on a fake smile.

'Hey,' Jim replied admiringly. He was at Sherlock's shoulder which had basically pushed John out of the road. Jim put his hand down on the bench making a metal dish clang to the floor. John turned away while bringing a hand up to his forehead as Molly's boyfriend apologised over and over while giggling nervously. Clara wanted to face palm too but instead she smiled politely. Sherlock just looked irritated and turned back to his microscope as the dish was replaced.

Jim wandered back over to Molly. 'Well I'd better be off. See you at the Fox, bout six-ish?' He asked Molly.

'Yeah,' she nodded as Jim turned to leave.

'Bye! It was really nice to meet you,' he told Sherlock.

The detective didn't reply so John said 'You too'.

Jim looked a bit awkward for a moment but soon slipped out the door. As soon as it closed Molly turned to Sherlock. 'What do you mean _gay_? We're together!'

'Domestic bliss must suit you Molly, you've put on three pounds I see.'

' _Two and a half_ '.

'Nope, three.'

'Sherlock...' John warned. Clara also looked warily at him - he was toeing the line.

'He's _not_ gay' Molly argued angrily, 'Why do you have to spoil...? He's _not_!'

'With that level of personal grooming?' Sherlock snorted.

'Just because he puts product in his hair? _I_ put product in my hair!' John retorted.

'You wash your hair, there's a difference. Tinted eyelashes, clear signs of cream round the frown lines. Then there's his underwear,' Sherlock deduced with a frustrated sigh.

' _His underwear_?' Both women exclaimed.

'Visible above the waist line - _very_ visible. Very particular brand too.' He said while reaching for the metal dish Jim had knocked over. 'That plus the very suggestive fact that he left his number under this dish here.' Sherlock showed Molly the card that had indeed been underneath. 'I'd say you better break it off now to save yourself the pain.'

The poor woman looked enraged at the detective before turning round and running after her boyfriend. 'Well you're Prince Charming aren't you!' Clara growled at the man.

'Haven't heard of him,' Sherlock replied blandly.

Clara looked ready to strangle him as she rolled her eyes again furiously. 'I've had enough, I'll be back at Baker Street,' She told them loudly before grabbing her handbag and strode out of the lab.


	8. Carl Powers

Clara sipped her tea as she watched Sherlock looking endlessly at the pair of shoes from her flat. She sat in his chair quite comfortable with one leg crossed over the other. Sherlock shot her glances now and then when she thought she wasn't looking. He always did so with a strange mix of curiosity and dare he think it - peace. She was such a _distraction_. Always questioning, teasing, flirting - Clara Oswald never stopped.

Even though their bantering seemed strangely familiar though often got out of hand, Sherlock also felt like he didn't know her at all. Sure he could tell from a dusting of flour on her sleeve that she had tried cooking one her famous soufflés again, and also she was still a tiny bit angry at him from her involuntary frown when she caught him looking at her. But _what was she thinking_? If only he could see inside her head. No other human being had captivated his attention for so long. John was a possibility but Sherlock knew everything about his flatmate. Right down to his preferred brand of shampoo. Clara however... 'Stumped are you?' She asked brightly raising her eyebrows from the seat in his chair. Why did she always sit there? It was as if she had _claimed_ the spot.

'Of course not' Sherlock answered in a clipped tone. He turned back to his microscope and adjusted the lens.

'So Carl Powers.' She hummed looking at the ceiling. 'Where the young _amateur_ detective, Sherlock Holmes, started.'

Sherlock didn't react to her taunting. Amateur? He had never been amateur! 'How's the cat?' He asked blandly instead of taking the bait.

'Alive.' She replied.

'Shame.' He breathed quietly, too soft for Clara to hear.

Just then John came up the stairs brandishing his phone. 'Your brother is texting _me_ now.' He said while frowning. 'How does he know my number?'

'Must be a root canal.' Sherlock decided thoughtfully.

'He did say national importance you know,' The doctor continued while putting his phone away. He gave Clara a small smile which she returned. Sherlock picked up a few photo graphs to do with the case and sighed heavily. He ignored his flatmate and tried to concentrate. There were only five hours left before the bomb exploded anyway. 'You can't just ignore it.' John said when he didn't get a reaction.

'I'm not. Putting my best man onto it right now,' Sherlock answered with a fake smile.

'Right,' His flatmate said nodding satisfactorily. 'Who's that?'

Sherlock didn't immediately reply. He shared an amused glance with Clara before saying 'I'm sure you'll figure it out, doctor.'

John breathed some very colourful swear words before shrugging his coat on and walking back down the stairs. Mutterings of something that sounded a lot like 'lazy' and 'arse' followed John's footsteps.

.

Later that night when Clara was nearly asleep in Sherlock's chair, Mrs Hudson brought in a tray of nibbles for them all. She placed them on the table and looks sweetly at Clara while she nodded off, still holding an empty teacup. 'Poison!' Sherlock suddenly exclaimed looking up from his microscope.

'Sorry what?' The landlady asked worriedly glancing at Clara. Surely the younger woman was just nodding off...

Sherlock suddenly slammed his hands down on the table making the lady jump. 'Clostridium Boltunium!' He shouted. Mrs Hudson flitted out of the kitchen in distress. It was best not to get ones self involved when Sherlock was like this. John looked at him blankly and Clara just rested her head in a more comfortable position. 'It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!' The detective clarified. 'Carl Powers!'

'Wait you're saying he was murdered?' John asked finally understanding. He yawned mid sentence as Mycroft had been especially boring at the Diogenes club.

Sherlock jumped up and held up the shoelaces from the trainers. 'The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce poison into his medication. Two hours later in London, the poison takes effect and he drowns in the swimming pool as his muscles paralyse.'

John held up a finger as his eyebrows knitted together. 'How - how come the autopsy didn't pick this up?'

Sherlock continued to walk around and waving his hands manically as he answered. 'It's virtually undetectable and no one would have been looking for it.' He strode over to his laptop and typing feverishly. With a flick of his wrist he pressed enter and turned around.

'The killer kept the shoes all these years,' John said wistfully.

'Yes. Meaning...'

'He's our bomber,' John finished.

The pink phone which had been sitting next to the microscope suddenly rang loudly. Sherlock whizzed around and picked the device up in one fluid motion. After listening for a moment the detective asked loudly 'where are you? Tell us where you are!'

He clicked the phone off after that and rung Lestrade on his personal phone. Sherlock repeated an address and exchanged a few words. He clicked the phone off and continued to pace round the flat. 'You're strutting.' Clara stated tiredly.

' _What_?'

'You're _strutting_. Round the room.'

'I do not strut' Sherlock sniffed now much more conscious of his walk. He sat down in the couch and looked morbidly at the mantelpiece.

'Don't worry Sherlock' John sighed while picking up a discarded newspaper. 'I won't tell Clara about your late night cat walk sessions.'

Clara laughed loudly with twinkling eyes and a cheeky grin. The statement pulled him out of his thoughts with and abrupt jolt. 'My _what_?' The detective uttered, glaring at his friend.

'My lips are sealed' John said and mimed zipping up his mouth.

Sherlock looked at Clara in puzzlement. She mouthed the word 'joke'.


	9. Janus Cars

Clara was woken by her laptop dinging loudly on her bedside table. She sat up in surprise and tapped the keys aimlessly trying to turn it off. 'Clara? Clara! John is waiting downstairs with a cab, hurry up!' Sherlock's loud voice shouted at her. Clara peered at his face on the pixilated screen then gasped in horror.

'I'm in my _nighty_ Sherlock!' She shouted, utterly embarrassed. She pulled the covers up from her bed to protect her shreds of dignity.

Clara could _feel_ the eye roll that the detective did. 'This camera only works one way, remember?' He told her, obviously annoyed at her own ignorance.

Clara dropped her covers and sat up. She made a silly face at the screen and received no response. 'Okay, give me twenty minutes tops' she cried then dashed to the bathroom. Half an hour later she was racing out wearing a red dress and navy tights with her purse swinging from her arm and a granola bar in hand. Sure enough, outside a cab man was looking irritable with Sherlock and John inside. Clara grinned in excitement and wiggled in next to Sherlock and took a bite of her improvised breakfast. 'So what's up, boys?' Clara asked with a wink.

'Sorry for the wake up, Sherlock insisted' John apologised with a shrug. 'Didn't you Sherlock?' He added softly to his friend with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock brushed him off and launched into a recount of events. 'There's another bomb waiting to blow up, we past the first test with Carl Powers, here's the next. Another voice, another case and only nine hours. Sent this.' Sherlock passed Clara the pink phone out of his pocket. She held it gingerly and saw an image of an abandoned car. John told her there was blood in it but no body. A possible murder by the looks of it.

'Nine hours till boom!' She murmured with a shudder. Clara handed the phone back and put her granola bar in her bag. She suddenly didn't have an appetite anymore.

'Six actually' Sherlock corrected bluntly.

Clara went a shade paler and John frowned at his flat mate. 'So where are we going now?' Clara asked realising she had just jumped into the cab without further ado.

'Janus Cars, it where the car was hired from,' John informed her. Clara nodded and sat stiffly in her seat. She decided to munch on her granola bar after all.

.

They arrived at the business with a slight drizzle wafting down. Clara wished she had brought her coat, it looked like a storm was coming in. They walked across the gravel which crunched underfoot and into the mustard painted building. Clara and John both breathed relieved sighs as the warm air conditioning enveloped them. 'Clara I need you to distract him, the owner' Sherlock directed her.

Clara's brows creased together as they walked down the hall. 'Okay...how am I doing that?'

'I don't know! Use your...female assets' Sherlock replied irritably.

'My _what?_ ' Clara exclaimed loudly.

'Sherlock!' John scolded at the same time.

'Fine, I'll do it all myself shall I?' The detective snapped and walked more briskly towards the door that said manager down the end of the hall.

Clara bristled up but followed behind John instead. 'Why is he so _irritating_?' She muttered. 'How do you live with him John?'

'I couldn't do it without Mrs Hudson, that's for sure. He had toes in the toaster one day!' John whispered back.

Clara giggled involuntarily. Sherlock could drive anyone to drink! Toes in the toaster, a head in the fridge, what was next? Eyeballs on the mantelpiece? 'I know you two are talking about me' Sherlock told them without looking round.

'Your skills of deduction amaze me Mr Holmes' Clara laughed. It was Sherlock's turn to bristle though his lips twitched into a smile. He knocked on the managers door quickly. A man called Ewert let them in.

Ewert was loud, proud and very arrogant. You could have said Sherlock and him were best friends. However, Sherlock was on a mission and he wasn't going to let Mr-I-Am-So-Cool get the better of him. The Janus Cars owner had slicked back brown hair and an expensive striped shirt. He was relaxed in his movements when sitting down into his plush chair. John sat opposite him and got his little note book ready. Clara pretended to be very interested in the bookshelf behind her while Sherlock started talking rubbish to start off a conversation. He mentioned Mr Monkford (the owner of the abandoned car) a few times. 'I don't see how I can help you gentlemen, and lady' he sighed though smiled at Clara.

'Mr Monkford hired a car from you yesterday' John reminded the man.

'Yeah. Lovely motor. Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one myself!'

'Is that one?' Sherlock asked while pointing at one of the numerous pictures of cars on the wall.

Ewert turned in his chair to see what Sherlock had been pointing at. While he was looking, the detective took the chance to look closely at the man's neck. Clara and John shared an amused glance. 'No, they're all Jags' the owner laughed, turning back. 'I can see you're not a car man, eh?'

'But, well, surely _you_ can afford one, a Mazda, I mean?' Sherlock continued. Clara wanted to applaud his acting skills, he could really convince an unsuspecting audience.

'Yeah, it's a fair point. Like working in a sweet shop. Once you start picking at the liquorice all sorts, when does it all stop, eh?' Ewert told them while scratching the top of his left arm.

John leaned forward as he asked 'but you didn't know Mr Monkford?'

'No, he was just a client. Came in and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him. Poor sod.' The owner said this all with a false air of sadness like he actually cared.

'Nice holiday, Mr Ewert?' Sherlock stated which made Clara's eyebrows raise appreciatively. She loved hearing his deductions, not that she would ever tell him or John.

'Eh?' Was all the car man could utter.

'You've been away haven't you?'

'Oh, the-the' he asked gesturing to his tanned face. 'No it's errr, sun beds. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it though - a bit of sun.'

'Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?' Sherlock asked suddenly. Clara crossed her arms and frowned, Mrs Hudson had said he was going cold turkey. Ewert looked at him blankly. 'I'm _gasping_ ' the detective insisted.

'Um, well...' Ewert got out his wallet and had a peek inside. 'Hmmm...no sorry.'

'Oh well, thank you very much for your time Mr Ewert' Sherlock said and headed towards the door. 'You've been _very_ helpful. Come along John, Clara.'

Back in the hallway John started reaching for his wallet. 'I've uh, got change if you want...' He offered.

'You just wanted to look in his wallet!' Clara realised now very impressed with the cleverness of it all. The detective smiled appreciatively at her intelligence. 'Nicotine patches remember!' Clara added patting Sherlock's arm.

'Yes, I'm doing well' Sherlock agreed, slightly smug.

'But why? Why did you need to see his wallet?' John asked.

'Mr Ewert is a liar.'


	10. Questions and Answers

Clara watched Sherlock test the blood found in Mr Monkford's car with mild fascination. She watched his long face which was in deep concentration with her head cocked to the side. He was such a strange man, yet both a punishment and a joy to hang around. His long pale face was brightened in the white light of St Barts and made his cheekbones look sharper than usual. His dark curling locks were in a tangled mess that made Clara want to run her hand - _DING!_

The pink phone rang loudly, which shocked Clara out of her daydream. She jumped and tried not to blush. 'Hello?' Sherlock asked, picking the phone. up. Clara tried to listen intently but she couldn't pick up what the voice on the other end of the line was saying. Sherlock didn't display any emotion. 'Why would you be giving me a clue?' He finally uttered. He listened patiently and flicked his eyes to Clara. 'Then talk to me in your own voice' he replied softly into the phone, still looking at her. The line went dead and Sherlock placed the phone carefully onto the bench. He looked intently at the dish in front of him than began to smile. Clara looked at him, both happy and confused. He was definitely onto something. Sherlock winked at her before grabbing his coat. 'Coming, soufflé girl?' he grinned.

Clara shook her head at him with a wide smile on her face. 'Only if you don't grin like that, Mr cheekbones!' She laughed and followed him out. 'Are you going to tell me what you have figured out?'

'Patience Clara' he whispered. 'We need to pick up John first.'

Clara crossed her arms and looked at London passing by through the window. She hummed tunes out of the Wizard of Oz to pass the time. She liked how he had said 'we' instead of his usual selfish pronouns. John was waiting outside Speedy's cafe looking miserable in the cold London drizzle. He started muttering about Mrs Hudson making him nail "a million" holes in the wall for her "bloody paintings". Once he had stopped grumbling, Sherlock told them where they were going - the police car pound, back to Mr Monkford's car. Clara breathed out a sigh. She obviously thought they were going somewhere exciting. Clearly Sherlock was the only excited one. His long fingers were tapping lightning fast across his knee in anticipation.

They reached the compound and met Lestrade inside. They came into a room surrounded by plastic white sheets with the silver vehicle in the middle. All the doors were open, making it look like an insect ready to fly. Lestrade greeted them politely and started chatting happily with Clara about the weather. Sherlock cleared his throat and Lestrade went back into police mode. 'No foreign prints found, nothing out of the ordinary' he shrugged nodding to the car. 'Except the blood, I suppose.'

Sherlock inspected the car with false concern. Clara rolled her eyes and folded her arms. 'Alright yoda, spit it out' she ordered him.

'How much blood would you say is on that seat?' Sherlock asked, rounding on Lestrade.

Lestrade shook his head. 'How much? A pint?' He offered.

'Not "about". _Exactly_ a pint.' The detective corrected. 'That was their first mistake. The blood is definitely Ian Monkford's but it's been frozen.'

'Frozen?'

'There are clear signs. I think Ian Monkford gave some of his blood some time ago, and that's what they spread on the seat.'

'Clear signs my left foot,' Clara muttered quietly, too low for anyone to hear. Her tone was dripping in sarcasm. She did admire his deducting skills, even if they were awfully annoying.

' _Who_ did?' John asked, looking quizzically at the car.

'Janus cars. The clues in the name' Sherlock replied smugly.

'The God with two faces!' John exclaimed. Realisation made his eyebrows jump up and his mouth turn into an "O".

' _Exactly_ '. Sherlock looked round to Lestrade, not before catching Clara's eye. She grinned and shrugged in a well-done fashion. Sherlock then peered into the car. 'They provided a very special service. If you've got any kind of problem - bad marriage, money troubles, whatever - Janus cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes on some sort of trouble - financial I guess, because he was a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, with the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the drivers seat...' He told the inspector and finished with slamming the car door.

'So...where is he now?' Clara asked.

'Columbia'

' _Columbia?!_ '

'Mr Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet,' Sherlock explained. 'Quite a bit of change too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I distracted himI could see his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sun bed that, plus his arm.'

'His arm?' John asked, now seemingly his turn to ask a question.

'Kept scratching it. Obviously irritating him, and bleeding. Why? Because he recently had a booster jab. Hep-B probably, difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Columbia. Mrs Monkford cashes in on the life insurance and splits it with Janus cars' Sherlock explained, hardly pausing for breath.

'M-Mrs Monkford?' John stuttered.

'Oh yes , she's in it too.' Lestrade lowered his head with a look of amazement on his face. Clara couldn't stop staring at Sherlock, her big brown eyes in awe. 'Now go and arrest them inspector, it's what you do best' Sherlock said, as every one seemed to be at loss for words. He turned and led John and Clara away, leaving Lestrade still reeling over the information. 'We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved' he muttered to them. Clara couldn't even whisper the word 'fantastic' as a cat had her tongue. Sherlock didn't need her to say anything, he clenched his fists and shouted: 'I am on _fire_!'

Clara was snapped out of her daze and slapped his arm. 'People with bombs strapped to their chests remember?'

'Yes, brilliant isn't it?!' Sherlock replied happily with shards of madness in his eyes. To John's surprise he reached over and ruffed Clara's hair with a maniac laugh. She squeaked and pulled away, trying to flatten her brown locks. 'I _am_ brilliant aren't I?' He gloated to himself.

'I'll be the judge of that' she muttered with a grin. She could almost hearing him chanting: I came, I saw, conquered, I am the man, etcetera, etcetera. Ugh, men.


	11. Connie Prince

Sherlock and John sat in a cafe enjoying the first break since this whole case had started. John was wolfing down a large plate of scrambled eggs before his flatmate. Sherlock's long fingers were tapping impatiently on the fake wooden tables. He kept on glancing at the pink phone waiting for it to ring. Last night he had uploaded the answer to the car case on his website but the phone remained silent. 'Feeling better?' The detective asked. Less out of interest, more to pass the time.

'Mmm. You realise we've hardly stopped for breath since this has started' the doctor informed his friend. John ate another forkful of of breakfast before continuing. 'Has it occurred to you...?'

'Probably.'

'No, has it occurred to you that the bomber is playing a game with you?'

'Yes, I know,' Sherlock replied while smiling slightly. What a wonderful game it was too.

'Is it him then? Moriarty?'

'Perhaps,' Sherlock hummed. His fingers stopped drumming as a phone beeped. Both the men looked expectantly at the pink cover but nothing happened. Sherlock sighed and reached inside his pocket. 'Clara' He drawled in a sort of greeting. 'The USB?' He asked curiously after a few seconds. 'Look Clara, I'm sort of, okay, _fine_. Have you clicked on the settings button?' While he was explaining to his neighbour how to disconnect her USB the pink phone buzzed. He snapped it up off the table before John could lower his cutlery and looked at the image after two beeps had passed. 'That could be anybody!' He exclaimed, irritated looking at a picture of a middle aged woman. 'Clara we have another clue form the phone, you better come down here.'

Sherlock hung up and inspected the photo once more. John had a peek and swallowed a mouthful of eggs. 'Well yeah, it could be. But lucky for you I've been more than a little unemployed.'

'How d'you mean?'

'Lucky for you, Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly' John told Sherlock and stood up from the table. He walked over to the little TV playing above the counter and grabbed the remote. He flicked through a few channels before landing on a specific one. The same woman in the photo is gesturing wildly on screen, part way through her makeover show. Sherlock looked intently at the small pixilated screen until the pink phone rang. He picked it up, looking extremely relieved. 'Hello?'

The detective listened quietly, contemplating the information. He shared a look with John as the man sat down again. 'Why are you doing this?' Sherlock asked. A few seconds later he shook his head at John and lowered the phone back onto the table. Sherlock looked at the telly again as the show continued. A news presenters voice talked over the images explaining that this woman, Connie Prince, was found dead two days by her brother, in the house they shared together in Hampstead. Sherlock gave his flatmate a knowing look and rose up form the table. John shook his head and wiped his mouth on a napkin. Just another hour was all he wanted, just to slow down this whole game. Too bad the word "relax" wasn't in Sherlock's vocabulary.

.

Lestrade led the boys and Clara into St Barts morgue, filling them in as they walked. 'Connie Prince, fifty four. Had one of those make over shoes on the telly. Did you see it?'

'No,' Sherlock replied blankly.

'Very popular. She was going places' Lestrade informed them. He had a large file filled up with information about the deceased, which he was reading from.

'Not any more.' Sherlock strode over, closer to the body which lay on a cool metal table. 'So, dead two days. According to one of her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand in a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound.'

John and Sherlock inspected the body, muttering between themselves about tetanus bacteria. Lestrade turned to Clara, who was looking morbidly at the body. She was quite pale. 'Mrs Hudson and I used to watch her show all the time. Just yesterday afternoon she was on the telly. Not the way to meet celebrities is it?' She murmured quietly, looking at the body covered by a pale green sheet.

'Yeah well, a loss to us all I suppose,' Lestrade sighed. 'Though John's blog is getting pretty popular, the boys at the base love it. Sherlock could be quite a super star one day.'

'I'll believe it when I see it' Clara laughed. Sherlock? A celebrity? Yeah right! He did have the hair for it, and maybe the looks, but such a show off...

'Something is wrong with this picture,' the show off in question said loudly.

'Eh?' Lestrade uttered, confused, though not surprised.

Clara watched Sherlock as his beautiful pale eyes narrowed into slits as he looked down at the body. He bent down closer to inspect Connie's right arm. He took a magnifier from his pocket and looked at scratches on her upper arm through the lens. Claw marks. He moved up to her blank face and noticed tiny pin pricks in the skin on her forehead. He used his magnifier to look closely at them. 'John?'

'Mmm' his flatmate replied.

'The cut on her hand. It's deep, would have bled a lot right?'

'Yeah' agreed John.

'But the wound is clean - _very_ clean, and fresh.' Sherlock straightened up. His eyes flicked around the room as his brilliant mind whirled. 'How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?' He asked.

'Eight, ten days,' John replied quickly. Sherlock quicker a one sided grin and gave Clara a mischievous look. She shook her head at him and scrunched her eyebrows together. She didn't understand whatever telepathic message he was trying to convey. The detective rounded on John, waiting for him to put all the puzzle pieces together. 'The cut was made later' the doctor said, rubbing his jaw.

'After she was dead?' The inspector asked.

'Must have been,' Sherlock decided. 'The only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?' John looked thoughtfully at the body. Clara tried _not to_ look at the body. 'You want to help right?' Sherlock asked his flatmate.

'Yes, of course.'

'Connie Prince's background. Family history, everything. Give me data.'

John agreed then left the room. Sherlock took one last look at the deceased then headed towards the door with Clara hot on his heels. Like a proper gentle man he let her go first through the door. She smiled and thanked him, glad to be out of the morgue. Before he could follow her however, Lestrade stopped him. 'There's something else that we haven't thought of' he interrupted.

'Is there?' Sherlock asked with false casualness.

'Yes. Why is he _doing_ this, the bomber?' Sherlock stopped in his tracks and shared an anxious glance with Clara. 'If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?' Lestrade continued.

'Good Samaritan' Sherlock told the inspector nonchalantly over his shoulder.

'Who press-gangs suicide bombers?' Lestrade persisted before the detective could move away.

'Bad Samaritan.'

'I'm _serious_ Sherlock. Listen, I'm cutting you slack here; I'm trusting you - but out there somewhere, some poor bastard is covered in Semtex and is waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me, what are we dealing with?' The inspector demanded roughly.

Sherlock smiled thoughtfully with a hint of delight. 'Something _new_ '.

Clara and Sherlock then left he the morgue, leaving Lestrade to work his own way back to Scotland Yard. It wasn't till they were outside in the street that Clara turned on Sherlock. She pointed a finger at him with angry eyes. 'Innocent people waiting to be blown up!' She exclaimed.

'So?'

'Don't be so, ugh...happy!'

'This is just so brilliant Clara! It's not my fault you can't see it' he complained.

Clara rolled her eyes. 'Just don't smile about it, it puts people off.'

'Clearly you're not put off' he argued.

'I'm getting paid to follow you round, cheekbones. I _have_ to put up with it' she retorted. Sherlock stayed silent after that as they walked round the block, trying to find a cab. 'Mrs Hudson is getting ideas you know' she told him.

'Mrs Hudson always has ideas' Sherlock muttered back while waving down a black vehicle.

'Open your eyes Shirly, you're missing the point' she laughed and slid into the cab.

The detective was flabbergasted for a minute. ' _Don't call me Shirly_ '.


	12. Helga

**Hi...I'm actually alive...sorry for lack of activity.**

 **I still have some massive writers block on another chapter and it will not go away. So I'm writing a filler chapter after they try to throw some punches at the Golem in the auditorium but I have nothing. The TV Show just switches from when they fail at boxing to the art gallery with the painting but I want to have some substance between those two. Basically, if you have some ideas however crap or fabulous just tell me.**

Holy cats these people are fantastic: JediKendalina, BlackShaftedArrow (Is that a Hobbit reference?), bloodshound, Siyah A. olivesandowls2001

 **Emrys Holme** : MOLLY AND CLARA EMRYS THAT IS THE BEST IDEA EVER HOLY CATS I CAN SEE IT. It feels like the planets have just aligned or something - this is magical. KEEP GIVING ME TIPS THEY ARE LIFE SAVING. **  
**

**Oslock** : Thanks, I can't believe you people are still praising me!

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : Haha your reviews are so funny!

 **alexis (guest)** : Haha

Man, you guys really loved the Shirly thing...

* * *

The wall behind the sofa was covered in an amazing collage of information dedicated to the life and death of Connie Prince. The papers and maps on Clara had been shifted over to one side to make space for the new problem. Sherlock was looking at the elaborate patchwork of ideas thoughtfully while Lestrade paced across the other side of the room. Clara sat in the detective's chair, stroking her black kitten which was getting rather big. Maps, photographs and random scribbles on post it notes captivated Sherlocks attention entirely. He didn't even protest over the cat. 'Connection, connection, connection,' he muttered. 'There _has_ to be a connection.' Sherlock stopped murmuring and looked closely at the papers again. He stopped even lower and started gesturing to items pinned in place. 'Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The bomber _knew_ him; admitted that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationery from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What's he doing? Working his way round the world? Showing off?'

'There's a great pun there if anyone wants to pick it up' Clara said softly.

A phone started ringing and it was no surprise when Sherlock fished the pink cased device out of his pocket. He didn't say anything but one could assume it was the old woman strapped in explosives. Sherlock shared a look with Lestrade before ending the call. Sherlock raised his hands to his mouth with his palms pressed together as if he was praying. His concentration on the wall could burn a hole through it. At least five minutes past till he finally moved. In a fluid motion Sherlock snatched John's laptop off the coffee table and started tapping away. Clara sighed heavily and jumped up from the chair. Oscar was shoved roughly to the floor and hissed in annoyance. He slunk over to Sherlock and sat right behind the laptop screen, seemingly staring into the man's soul.

Clara was clattering round in the kitchen looking for mugs. 'Anyone want some coffee?' She called with her head in the pantry.

'I'd kill for a cup of tea' Lestrade sighed. He stretched his arms over his head and grumbled when his back cracked.

'Sherlock?' Clara asked along with ceramic mugs clicking together loudly.

The detective flicked his hand as if swatting a fly, still focusing on his screen. The cat was still eyeing him off. Oscar and Sherlock actually looked quite similar really it was quite uncanny. 'He says no' Lestrade cried into the kitchen. A few minutes later Clara come out with two steaming mugs in her hand. She passed one to the inspector and sipped hers slowly. Clara yawned widely, this massive case had hardly given anyone a break since it started. It wasn't long after Sherlock had moved on to his phone when Mrs Hudson clattered up the stairs. She greeted everyone politely and joined Lestrade and Clara who were looking at the mess of papers on the wall. 'Great... Thank you very much' Sherlock said into the receiver. He walked over to the fireplace to finish the conversation while his landlady looked sadly at the picture of Connie Prince. 'It was a real shame. I liked her,' Mrs Hudson told Lestrade. 'She taught me how to do colours.'

'Colours?' The inspector asked, clearly confused.

'You know,' she gestured to her purple blouse, 'what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise apparently. Drains me.'

'Who was that?' Lestrade asked the detective when he hung up on the phone.

'Home Office', Sherlock replied, staring at the wall.

Lestrade was clearly surprised. 'Home Office?'

'Well, Home Secretary actually, owes me a favour.'

'She was a pretty girl,' Mrs Hudson interrupted looking at another image of Connie holding an award. 'But she messed around with her face too much. They _all_ do these days.' Clara nodded in agreement and Lestrade smiled awkwardly. 'People can hardly move their faces!' Mrs Hudson gushed with a horrified expression. 'It's silly isn't it?' Mrs Hudson turned to Sherlock. 'Did you ever see her show?'

'Not until now' he replied. Sherlock picked up his laptop and they all crowded around it when a video started to play. It was an episode of Connie's famous makeover show. The grainy image showed the deceased talking to her brother.

'That's the brother, no love lost there. If you can believe the papers', the landlady informed them.

'So I gather. I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who love this show. Fan sites, indispensable do gossip.'

The audience started chanting in the video as Connie slapped her hands on her brother's back, trying to get him to take his coat off.

.

Half an hour or so later, Clara was typing an email to her mother when Sherlock suddenly burst in. She and Mrs Hudson had left the boys to their own devices but it was definitely something when Sherlock started opening her cupboards and draws. 'Camera, makeup - where are they?' He asked quickly and shoved Oscar out of an open drawer.

' _What?_ '

'Camera? makeup?'

'Why? Are you trying to capture your cheekbones in the right light?' Clara questioned folding her arms across her chest.

Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his mess of curls. 'No, I'm making my own make over show' he spat sarcastically. 'John is pretending to be a reporter and is talking to Connie Prince's brother. He needs help or something.'

'O...Kay...'

'Camera and make up _now_.'

'Fine, but can I come?' She asked skeptically though stood up to grab some cosmetics.

'Do you really need to ask now, Oswald?' Sherlock snapped as he found a dusty Nikon camera under the bed.

'Lets go camera boy' she sniffed and strode her way out of the apartment. Sherlock hurried after her, pretty sure she wouldn't wait for him.

.

Clara and Sherlock hurried into the rather posh house decked out in cosmetics and a camera with an extremely large flash on it. Raoul the housekeeper showed them in silently to the living room where John was perched on a striped sofa. 'Ah, Mr Prince, isn't it?' Sherlock greets the ageing man who was fiddling with his hair in front of a mirror.

'Yes' the house owner drawled, as if he was disgusted Sherlock didn't know him.

'Very good to meet you, this is my assistant'. Clara bobbed her head politely as she riffled inside her handbag

'Right. And your name is?' Kenny asked.

Clara blanked and started to mumbled something when Sherlock exclaimed. 'Her names Helga, first day on the job. Tad nervous!' He chuckled without humour.

'So sorry to hear about...' Clara trailed off, finally with her voice back.

'Oh yes, yes, very kind of...' Kenny muttered.

'Shall we err?' John interrupted, rising from the sofa. Kenny turned back to improve his reflection while the three ruffled in bags to get their props. 'You're right, the bacteria got in another way' John whispered to Sherlock.

'Oh yes?' Sherlock smirked.

' _Helga?!_ ' Clara interrupted, casting a murderous glance in the detective's direction.

Her glare wiped off any essence of a smile Sherlock once had. 'What?'

'That was the the best you could come up with. Any child with that name would die of shame!'

'Take your argument to Norway then!' Sherlock spat and spun round to face Kenny.

Clara grumbled something very rude and threw her handbag quite aggressively onto the floor. She followed Sherlock and the two started distracting the man. Clara 'accidentally' blew blush into Kenny's eyes. The flash on the camera Sherlock was manning blinded anyone in its path. 'Not to close, I'm raw from crying!' Prince protested.

'Who's this?' Sherlock paused looking down at the ugliest at int he world. It was completely hairless making the veins under its skin eerily visible.

'Sekhmet, named after an Egyptian goddess.'

'How nice, was she Connie's?'

'Yes.' Kenny picked he cat up off the floor, beating John to it. The doctor looked extremely disgruntled by this. 'Little present from yours truly' Kenny continued.

'Err, Sherlock? Light reading?' John interrupted, looking frustrated.

Sherlock lifted up the camera and fired repeatedly in Kenny's face. Clara ducked so she didn't get caught in the flash. 'Two point nine' Sherlock answered unnecessarily because John was trying his own deductions.

He motioned for his flat mate to continue the photography while he inspected the cat's paws. 'Bloody hell, what are you playing at?' Kenny demanded while he shielded himself from the bright light.

'I think we've got what we came for. Excuse us,' John said.

'What?' Kenny replied.

'Sherlock, Clara?'

'What?' They both said at the same time.

'We've got deadlines,' the doctor sang and grabbed the equipment off the sofa. They let themselves out of the house, after Clara had tried to say sorry but was unceremoniously dragged outside.

'Ooh yes, yes' John breathed happily looking at the overcast sky. He was clearly thrilled with the result of the visit.

'You think it was the cat' Sherlock smiled, finally letting go of Clara's elbow. 'It wasn't the cat.'

'What? No. Yes, _it_ is. It _must_ be. It's how the tetanus got into her system. The claws stink of disinfectant.'

'Lovely idea' Sherlock entertained with that silly smile on his face. Clara glared at him, expecting him to snap out of it.

'No, he coated it onto the laws of the cat. It's a new pet - bound to be a bit jumpy. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have...'

'I thought of it the minute I saw those scratches on her arm, but it's too random and clever for the brother.'

John chuckled as they plodded down the road. 'He murdered her for the money!'

'Did he?'

'Didn't he?'

'No it was revenge.' Sherlock explained. 'Kenny Prince has been the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out. Finally he had had enough, fell out with her badly. She threatened to disinherit Kenny.'

'But who wanted revenge then?'

'Raoul, the houseboy. He'd grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, didn't want it to change, so...'

John stopped in the middle of the road and turned to his friend. Clara kept on walking, leaving the boys behind. She was eager to get home. Mrs Hudson had promised a roast tonight! 'No, no, wait a second,' John said, clearly confused. 'What about the disinfectant?'

'Raoul keeps a very clean house. Did you see the state of that floor, scrubbed within an inch of its life. _You_ smell of disinfectant now. Clara's worse, she seems to have a gallon of Pine-o Clean dumped on her. No, the cat doesn't come into it, Raoul's Internet records however.'

John glared at his friend's back, angry he didn't solve a case for once. He sniffed his coat collar and left Sherlock to mutter about cabs.


	13. Sherlock Bloody Holmes

Hello all! I am still alive and have _finally_ written something. Also I have ventured out of my hermit cave to discover that their might be a Throne of Glass TV show and they are filming a Shadowhunters TV show. Not sure what to think yet. ALSO: can we please discuss WEARABLE TECHNOLOGY out of the new DW season? What do you guys think? **Tusceline** , **iTorchi** and **xXBaLeFiReXx** should be crowned and worshiped for their amazingness.

 **Emrys** **Holmes** : You get ten points for being the fastest reviewer! Thanks for liking the last chapter, I'll try and sneak in some side conversations here and there.

 **Tie-Dyed** **Broadway** : I know he was so certain. When I first watched that episode I felt like strangling Sherlock.

 **Oslock** : Holy cats man, YOU ARE A LIFESAVER. HOW DID I FORGET? I am fixing it ASAP. As soon as I read that every doctor who episode with her came rushing back and I'm pretty sure I had to blink a few times to stop ridiculing myself. I'm a failure to the fandom.

 **alexis** (guest): Haha thanks.

* * *

 _One hour to go..._

Clara and John trailed into Scotland Yard after Sherlock, fresh from the crisp evening air outside. This part of the building was getting quite familiar with Clara, and the people. There was Sally Donovan, yelling at one of her colleagues, Petunia was typing in the corner as usual, and there was the weird guy who always wore a bow tie. Sherlock welcomed himself into the main office by brandishing a folder at the inspector. 'Raoul de Santos is your killer. Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows that it wasn't tetanus that killed Connie Prince, it was botulinum toxin.' Sherlock leaned forwards and slid the folder onto a desk. 'We've been here before. Carl Powers. Tut tut. Our bomber has repeated himself' Sherlock sang. Lestrade turned and walked towards his office with Sherlock following. John and Clara narrowed their eyes and shared a confused glance, before following.

'So how'd 'e do it?' Lestrade asked, after picking up the folder. The inspector looked really wound up. He had dark circles under his eyes like he had spent every moment trying to figure out this case.

'Botox injection.'

'Botox?'

'Botox is a diluted form of botulinum,' Sherlock explained. 'Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections.' Clara thought back to the time in the morgue when the boys had been investigating the deceased's forehead. 'My contact at the Home Office gave me complete records of Raoul's internet history. He's been bulk ordering Botox for _months_.' Clara watched John with her brows knitted together. The man's face was getting angrier and angrier by the second. 'Bided his time, then used the strength to a fatal dose.'

'You sure about this?' Lestrade asked, like he needed to.

'I'm sure.'

'Alright - my office' he directed and took the lead.

Sherlock began to follow but John stopped him. 'Hey Sherlock, ah, how long?'

'What?'

'How long have you known?'

'A simple one really, actually. And like I said, the bomber repeated himself. _That_ was the mistake,' Sherlock rattled off. Clara stepped forward, flanking John. She crossed her arms and glared open mouthed at the detective.

'No but Sherloc...the hostage, the _old_ woman, she's been there all this time?'

'I knew I could save her. I also knew the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly, that left me time to get on with other things. Don't you see? We're one up on him!' With that Sherlock walked into Lestrade's office.

' _Other things?! Other things_ are more important than _an innocent lady waiting to be saved_ ,' Clara bristled with anger. ' _Sherlock_ bloody _Holmes_ you better come here...' Clara threatened murderously with a mad glint in her eye.

She stalked towards the office but John grabbed her arm. 'Clara, Clara, stop...'

'He knew, _he knew_ and he just left her there, she's _still_ there...'

'Clara we are in Scotland Yard. I agree, okay? That dickhead will get what he deserves by tonight but you can't murder someone in the middle of the bloody police station!' He whispered to her in a curt voice.

'As if they'd _mind_...' She muttered and tried to get past him again.

'Clara, just, c'mon Clara...oh _Jesus_...'

Clara side stepped John and barged her way into the office. Sherlock was talking on the phone and Clara was getting ready to rip it out of his hands when... 'No, no, no, tell me nothing about him. _Nothing_ ,' Sherlock said urgently into the receiver. All was quiet. ' _Hello_?' Sherlock asked. He put the phone down then and bit his lip.

'Sherlock what happened?' John asked, who raced in after Clara. The look Sherlock gave him could have turned someone to ice.

Clara clapped a hand over her mouth. ' _No_. Sherlock please tell me... _No_.' She whispered. A tear tracked down her left cheek. Everyone was silent, knowing the worst had indeed, happened.

.

The morning in 221b was somber. The windows were still bordered up and broken and didn't add to the cheeriness of the situation at all. Last night had needed in a shouting match between Clara and Sherlock. Mrs Hudson had been too afraid to come up stairs and rang John to see what was happening. But he was too occupied watching as the daggers were thrown across the room to really commentate properly. It ended with both of them slamming their doors and Sherlock sulking for the rest of the night. _Children_. You'd think the hormones had stopped raging _eons_ ago. But really, Clara was the only one who could get the great consulting detective into a fluster. He'd even started stuttering! In John's opinion he deserved all the yelling he got.

Sherlock himself was sitting in his chair, occasionally glancing at the pink phone resting on the arm. He'd been up all night brooding and waiting for his bomber to ring. And John had thought the Skype calls were becoming an obsession! The two were watching the telly. The news was reporting a story about "12 Dead in Gas Explosion". No doubt the apartment where the poor old lady had been. 'Old block of flats' John muttered at his flat mate over his shoulder. ' _He_ certainly gets around,' he said, implying the mastermind behind the killings.

'Well obviously I lost that round - though I did solve the case,' Sherlock sighed. He picked up the remote and muted the volume on the telly. 'He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, once, he put himself in the firing line.' Sherlock looked wistfully in the distance, holding up one long finger to illustrate the point.

'What d'you mean?'

'Well, usually, he must stay above it all. He organises things but no one ever has direct contact.'

'What...like the Connie Prince murder? He-he arranged that? Like people coming for crimes, like booking for a holiday?'

'Novel,' Sherlock agreed with admiration in his eyes. It was such an excellent scheme! John looked at him in disbelief then turned towards the TV screen. A new story had come on. John pointed towards the screen and got Sherlock to watch Raoul de Santos being hauled into a police vehicle. John looked back at Sherlock to find the man gazing at the pink phone. 'Taking his time this time...'

John cleared his throat uncomfortably and tried to engage himself in the telly again. It showed a picture of Kenny Prince stroking his ugly cat on his doorstep. 'Anything on the Carl Power's case?' He asked.

'Nothing. All the classmates check out; spotless. No connection.'

'Maybe the killer was older than Carl?'

'The thought had occurred.'

John cast a angry glance in the detective's direction before saying, 'so why is he doing this then? Playing this _game_. Does he want to get caught?'

'No, I think he wants a distraction' Sherlock murmured thoughtfully.

John laughed humorously as he got up from his armchair. Clearly that was the last straw for the doctor. 'Well I hope you two will be very happy together.'

'Sorry, what?'

John swung around furiously and pointed a finger at Sherlock. 'There are lives at stake Sherlock, actual _human_ lives! Just... Just so I know, do you care about that at all' he asked angrily. He gripped the head of his chair so hard his knuckles went white.

'Will caring about them save them?' Sherlock responded irritably.

'Nope.'

'Then I'll continue not to make that mistake.'

'And you find that easy, do you?'

'Yes, very. Is that news to you?'

'Nope.' John smiled bitterly. 'No.'

'I've disappointed you,' Sherlock replied, locking eyes with his flatmate.

John gave him a wide menacing smile, dripping in sarcasm as he says, 'yeah - great deduction. Fantastic Mr Holmes, what ever can I do to thank you?'

' _Don't_ make people into heroes, John.' Sherlock looked at his friend in all seriousness. 'Clara made that mistake. Heroes don't exist. And even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.' The two stare at each other for a second reading emotions and trying not to strangle the other. The pink phone dinged, making them blink. 'Excellent!' Sherlock exclaimed and picked up the device. The phone sounded one short pip then a long tone before the detective was tapping away. 'View of the Thames. South bank - somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo.' Sherlock reached into his coat pocket for his own phone. 'I'll check the web, you look in the papers.' Sherlock looked up to see John bracing himself on the chair with his head lowered. 'Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help,' Sherlock deduced. John raised his head and shrugged. 'Not much cop, for this caring lark' Sherlock drawled, clicking the K loudly.

John stared at his friend, wondering if he was ever going to change. He thought Clara might...but then Clara shouted the roof off the flat. Sherlock glanced away and started tapping away on his phone. Probably researching about the picture on the pink phone. John sniffed, angry his friend was so oblivious. The doctor walked over and plonked himself onto the leather sofa underneath the slightly faded yellow smiley face. He started going through a pile of newspapers. 'Archway suicide,' John offered.

'Ten a penny,' Sherlock snapped.

John threw him a look while picking up another paper. 'Two kids stabbed in Stroke Newington...' He picks up another. 'Ah, man found on train line. Andrew West.'

Sherlock grumbled loudly at his phone. He had found nothing. He dialled a number asking if anything had been found near Waterloo Bridge or between there and Southwark Bridge on Southbank. He smiled delightfully when an answer popped up. Sherlock snapped the phone off and shrugged on his coat. 'Coming?'

'Guess you're going alone. I doubt Clara is in any mood to talk to you.'

'Hardly,' Sherlock smiled manically. 'She's paid to supervise me. A wealthy amount too. Anyway, Mycroft would have her head. At least she wasn't stupid enough to turn down following me for money.'

John just turned the next page in the newspaper with as much gusto as he could.


	14. Shut Up

Your writer is sick. Again. Yay. I hope you can feel that sarcasm dripping off your screen.

 **lucigoosi47** and **chaosintheheadspace** should be worshipped for their amazingness. Ten points for the first reviewer and 20 for the first follower/favouriter of this chapter - battle it out people.

 **Emrys** **Holmes** : WELIFBALIJNCODPQKSW I can not explain my feelings to that review I DID SOMETHING GOOD IN THE LAST CHAPTER! Thank you thank you thank you. This chapter will be crap compared to the last one oh well.

 **Emz6347** : Haha I did write that. I read your profile out of curiosity and I swear we are identical.

 **Oslock** : Haha you make me laugh my friend.

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : Muhawawaw lets see shall we?

 **alexis** (Guest): :) Thank you.

 **rainbownarwhal** (Guest): Your pen name O_O amazing. I am not letting any of my secrets out of the bag sorry!

CHAPTER 13

* * *

The Thames was cold, murky and had just spat out a body on the shore. The soggy person was an obese male wearing soggy black trousers and a white shirt and was missing his shoes. Sherlock, John and Lestrade were snapping on latex gloves as forensics investigated the scene. Clara was shivering in her thin cardigan, wishing she could steal Sherlock's warm coat no matter how much of an arse he was being. Clara stood as far away from the body she could, though close enough to be able to hear the boys talking. She held her own pair of rubber gloves by her fingertips, wanting none of this police riffraff. She almost throttled Sherlock when he came barging into her flat. He grabbed her hand mumbling about another silly clue the bomber had given him and pulled her outside and into a can. Poor Oscar nearly had heart failure when Sherlock nearly stepped on him. Clara didn't want to go, but Mycroft _was_ paying her well.

'D'you think this is all connected, then? The bomber?' Lestrade asked, peering at the poor sod on the shore.

' _Must_ be. Funny though...' Sherlock held up the pink phone. 'He hasn't been in touch.'

'But we must assume that some poor bugger is primed to explode, yeah?'

Sherlock nodded morbidly. The idea sent a wave of shivers down Clara's spine. She was still angry at the detective for what happened to the old woman. She never wanted that to happen again, ever, not if she could stop that bloody Holmes from messing it up. Sherlock stepped backwards from the crime scene and took a long look at the man. 'Any ideas,' the inspector asked.

'Seven, so far.'

'Seven?!'

'Show off,' Clara grumbled. Sherlock glared at her but she matched it with her own death stare. Sherlock walked closer to the body again, and squatted down to examine the deceased's face using his magnifier. He then moved to the ripped pocket on the shirt and slowly worked his way downwards to the man's feet. Clara stared wide eyes as Sherlock pulled off the wet sock making her nose scrunch up as she imagined the awful smell. Sherlock examined the soles with his magnifying glass for a second. He closed the tool with a loud snap, clearly done his investigating. He turned to John, sending him a silent plea to examine the body. John looked at Lestrade, who nodded. The doctor reached over to take hold of the man's wrist, muttering to himself. Sherlock busied himself by tapping away on his phone. Clara stepped closer so she could hear better.

'Dead about twenty four hours - maybe a bit longer,' John told them then looked at Lestrade. 'Did he drown?'

'Apparently not. Not enough Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated.'

'Yes, I'd agree.' John started pointing to the deceased's mouth and cheeks. 'There's a lot of bruising. Here, here and here. Mainly around the nose and mouth.'

'Fingertips,' Sherlock muttered thoughtfully, thinking about what John had said.

'Late thirties I'd say, though not in the best condition...' John continued. Clara stepped closer, hating herself for it. She was standing right next to Lestrade now.

'He's been in the river a long while, that water has destroyed most of the data,' Sherlock explained, putting away his phone. He quirk an irritated grin. 'But I'd tell you one thing, that lost Vermeer painting his a fake.'

'What?' Lestrade exclaimed, accompanied by various outbursts from the others.

'We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates...'

'Wait-wait-wait-wait- _wait_ , what painting? What are you - what are you on about?'

Clara thought that if she had a pound for every time someone asked that she could buy the help the detective needed. 'The lost Vermeer painting is being unveiled in a week or something. There's posters _everywhere_ ,' Clara tried to explain, for the inspector's sake . She knew of the painting but not how it connected to the body.

'Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago. Now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds,' Sherlock added.

Lestrade took another look at the body, trying to piece everything together. ' _Okay_... So how does _that_ have anything to do with the stiff?'

Sherlock grinned briefly as he said ' _everything_ '. 'Have you ever heard of Golem?'

'Golem?'

'Golem out of Lord of the Rings?' Clara offered with a shrug. She received blank looks in response. 'You know the story about two gay guys on a mountain, I think that's what it is, maybe, no...?'

Sherlock shook his head, making his dark curls shake. 'Jewish folk story. A gigantic man made out of clay. It's also the name of an assassin, real name Oskar Dzundza. One of the deadliest assassins in the world.' Sherlock pointed to the body with a pale hand. ' _This_ is his trade mark style.'

The inspector rubbed his jaw, taking in the information. 'So this is a hit?'

'Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.'

Clara shuddered. 'Sheesh, he must have a fantastic resume' she muttered.

Lestrade gestured with his hand in frustration. 'I don't see how this has anything to do with the blasted painting.'

The detective sighed in exasperation. 'You see but you do not _observe_ ,' he told them fiercely. However Clara mouthed the words along with him, rolling her eyes. Sherlock glared at her. Clara apologised in a whisper, trying not to giggle.

'All right, all right, girls clam down,' John said, hoping his flat mate's actions wouldn't result in a row. 'D'you want to take us through it?'

Sherlock took a moment before he responded. 'What do we know about the body? The killer hasn't left us with much - just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal - maybe he was going out for the night, but the trousers are heavy duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt - cheap. They're both too big for him, so some kind of standard issue uniform. Dressed for work then. What _kind_ of work? There's a hook in his belt for a walking talkie.'

'Tube driver?' Lestrade guessed. Sherlock threw him a look that had "idiot" written all over it.

'Security guard?' John offered.

'Are we playing twenty questions?' Clara grumbled.

'Fantastic input Clara now shut up,' Sherlock snapped. Clara gasped, her brown eyes on fire. Before the other men could reprimand him, the detective continued. 'Security guard is more likely. That'll be borne out of his backside.

'Backside?!' Lestrade exclaimed.

Clara was about to put in another smart comment but Sherlock cut her off. 'Flabby. You'd think that he'd have led a sedentary life, yet the veins in his legs and soles of his feet say otherwise. So a lot of walking _and_ a lot of sitting down. Security guard is looking good. The watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts.'

'Why regular?' Lestrade wondered out loud. 'He could have just set it like that the night before he died.'

'No-no-no, the buttons are stiff. They're hardly touched. He set that alarm a long time ago. His outline never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on his shirt he tore off. The dead man must have worked somewhere recognisable, an institution maybe.' Sherlock paused to take something out of the trouser pocket on the deceased. He held up a ball of which appeared to be damp paper mashed together. 'Sodden by the river, but still recognisable...'

John leaned forward to peer at the evidence. 'Tickets?'

'Ticket _stubs_. He worked in a museum or gallery. I did a quick check - the Hickman gallery has reported one of its attendants missing.' He pointed down at the body. 'Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the rediscovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone pay the Golem to assassinate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference: the deadman knew something - knew something that would stop the owner receiving thirty million pounds. The picture is a fake.'

' _Fantastic_ ,' John murmured admiringly.

Sherlock shrugged in response. He still looked angry from the earlier argument. 'Meretricious,' he muttered.

'And a happy new year!' Lestrade finished, grinning sheepishly when John frowned at him.

'Poor sod,' Clara said under her breath, looking down at the body.

Lestrade breathed out heavily. 'I better get my feelers out if we're going to to ring this Golem character.'

'Pointless. You'll never find him. But I know a man who can,' Sherlock winked.

'Who?'

'Me,' he replied while grinning.

He turned and walked away, without a goodbye. John exhaled, his entire body radiating his annoyance for his friend. But as a dutiful soldier, he followed. Clara frowned at the doctor's back. She didn't want to follow. She didn't want to be stuck in another cab with _him_. Lestrade patted her on the shoulder. 'Someone's got to do it, Clara.'

.

Inside a cab, Clara sat across from the boys, her lips turned downwards as she gazed out the window. Sherlock was staring at the pink phone with confusion and vexation. 'Why hasn't he phoned? He's broken his pattern. Why?' Sherlock asked.

Clara's lips twitched into a grin. 'I suppose the divorce is coming up?' John hid his smile behind his hands. Luckily, Sherlock didn't hear her. A thought seemed to occur to him and he told the taxi driver to go to Waterloo bridge.

'Where now? The gallery?' John asked, now that he had recovered from his silent amusement.

'In a bit.'

'The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it? Why have they got hold of an Old Master?'

'Dunno. Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data.' Sherlock reached inside his jacket and fished out a notebook. He tore out a piece of paper, wrote on it, then folded it in half after putting a bank note inside it. He put it in his pocket and called out 'stop!', halting the driver. He told them to wait there before scrambling out of the cab. Clara watched with wide eyes as she watched the detective easily vault of the railing on the side of the road. He went across another road before he disappeared up some steps. Clara tried not to laugh as John followed his friend, ungracefully, climbing over the railing. A minute later, both the boys returned. Apparently Sherlock was 'investing' in information. 'Now we go to the gallery,' Holmes stated.

The trip to the gallery was short but filled with excitement on Sherlocks part. When they arrived Clara and Sherlock jumped out of the cab but the detective stopped John. 'No. I need you to find out all about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you an address.'

'Okay,' John replied. 'Is Clara...?'

'She's coming with me.'

'Why?' Clara asked raising a delicate eyebrow. An edge of anger tinted her voice.

Sherlock turned to her slowly. 'We need to talk.'


	15. Snog Box

Good morning,

Hope you all are well. I am getting demands to spill the beans about the doctor and his appearance. I will say this, the doctor will not be appearing in this episode but after wards...I'll leave you to your deductions! These people should receive knighthood for following/fabouriting/both: **Bewitchedfan2** , **Mel2121** , **tempybren** , **phoenix1522** , **MasterYuki** , **bluefishcustard** and **zeynel**

 **Oslock** : Muhawawa you'll just have to read it! And with the 'guy in the bowtie' you can deduce that for yourself!

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : Haha, might be the other way round, you'll just have to see!

 **Emz6347** : Compliment! Sorry, sorry, sorry! And I think you're a mind reader about in you're review by the way.

 **Guest** : Aww thanks, I hope you like this chapter!

 **CresantShooter** : Haha, yes they do ;)

 **Guest** : You won't be seeing the doctor yet but soooon, promise!

 **Potatoofgod** : Haha, awesome pen name.

* * *

'What do you _mean_ you need to talk to me? Who says I'm going to talk back?' Clara snapped as she stalked across the pavement next to Sherlock. The gallery came into view but they veered around it, heading for the back entrance.

'You're angry at me,' he stated, not looking in her direction.

Clara gave him a poisonous stare. 'Fantastic deduction, Holmes.'

'Look, John wanted me to...' He trailed off, sweating in his boots. He looked something resembling nervousness. Clara raised an expectant eyebrow. 'Ugh, I cannot believe I'm actually doing this, I am _forced_ to apologise for my past actions.' Clara looked at him strangely. 'Oh shut up,' Sherlock snapped.

'Come on, I'm waiting for this courageous apologetic speech,' Clara hummed. They reached the back of the building and Sherlock headed towards a fire door.

He rested his hand on the doorknob. 'Okay, I'm _sorry_ that I told you to shut up. But I will not apologise for the old lady.'

He turned the handle but Clara grabbed his arm. 'Don't ever do it again. Don't ever let an innocent person die because all you want is a distraction,' she asked him stiffly.

'Clara, don't be ridiculous, it wasn't my fault she started describing him. Really, it was...' _CRACK!_ Sherlock wheeled back as Clara slapped him.

He clutched his red cheek with his hands. Clara definitely had his attention now. 'Promise me, Sherlock Holmes, or you will never solve another case again,' she hissed through her gritted teeth, deadly serious. Her eyes burned with rage. Sherlock stared at her in awe and irritation. ' _Promise_ me.'

He nodded. 'Promise. Cross my heart and hope to whatever it was.' He awkwardly tried to cross his heart with a pale hand.

That seemed good enough for Clara because she let go of her iron grip on his forearm. Sherlock slipped through the door and she followed. They tiptoed through a maze of corridors, avoiding any passage that had voices echoing out of it. 'Are we breaking the law?' Clara whispered behind him.

'Oh, definitely.' Footsteps suddenly echoed down the corridor they were in. 'You, me, cupboard, now,' Sherlock said and opened the door to a cleaner's cupboard. Clata's eyes went as wide as sauces.

'In there?! I am not getting in that, that cupboard with you!'

'In here or you'll both blow our cover! It's only a cupboard. Now hurry!'

'A cupboard?! It's looking a lot like snog box right now.'

'A snog box!?' Sherlock exclaimed. The footsteps were getting louder. Sure enough, a shadow started appearing round the corner. 'For god's sake Clara...' Sherlock yanked her by the arm and closed the door on the broom cupboard. All they could hear was each other breathing.

'I despise you,' Clara whispered. She was pressed up against his side and could hardly see a thing. His aftershave however, made Clara want to melt into a puddle of the amazing fragrance.

'At least I didn't get us nearly arrested,' he replied quietly. The footsteps were still echoing somewhere.

'Don't flatter yourself, cheekbones.' Clara tried to move her arms, which were pinned behind her. 'Now can we get out now?'

Sherlock responded by shoving the door open with his shoulder because his arms were pinned as well. They stumbled out, catching themselves on the opposite wall. 'See, _not_ a snog box.'

'Let's just get on with it, kay?' Clara said, brushing herself off.

.

Through various passages, most of which Sherlock had to yank Clara back from so they weren't seen, they came across a staff room. It was in neutral white tones with a mouldy looking couch in the corner. There was a row of lockers through another door. Clara sighed. At least there were biscuits. Sherlock immediately went to the lockers while Clara opened all the condiment cupboards. 'Is this where we are meant to be?' She asked, scrunching her nose at the greenish cheese in the fridge.

'Yep,' Sherlock said while he fingered through the clothes in one of the lockers.

Clara opened a jar to find the delicious smell of chocolate biscuits. 'Mmmmm, yum. Do you want - WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!'

Clara had whipped around to find Sherlock Holmes with half of his buttons on his shirt undone. She turned back around with her face as red as a tomato. 'I'm putting on the security guard's uniform,' he said.

'You can't just _strip_ without telling me!' She cried. 'I could have seen _anything_.'

'Oh don't get your hopes up,' Sherlock growled as she turned her back. Clara squeaked in protest at him. ' _Look_ , I'm _decent_.' Clara turned around slowly.

She squinted through her fingers, hoping he wasn't lying. Sherlock was wearing a rather stylish disguise of a blue shirt with lapels and his own black slacks and a police jacket. God help her heart, he was wearing the cap too. 'You look...' She trailed off her eyes getting distracted again.

'Yes, like a guard, now let's go.'

'Well, I was going to say you look rather dashing but whatever floats your boat,' Clara muttered softly. Sherlock threw his shirt and coat at her. He grabbed her arm, seemingly knowing the layout of the building. They ended up in a lone corridor with double doors at the end. Clara stepped towards them but Sherlock put an arm out. 'No. You stay here and wait for me. The painting is just on the other side and I want a good look at it.'

Clara clutched his clothes aggressively. 'Why can't I go and look at it?'

'I am the one in the disguise. Now wait here.'

Before she could offer any other alternatives Sherlock was already through the doors. Clara could just peer through the glass portholes. She cursed her short legs for the millionth time. The room was pure white with one stand holding the famous resurrected artwork. Two rows of free standing posts were roped together with red cord to form a path to the picture. There was no other furniture of any kind. Sherlock peered inquisitively at the painting. He scrutinised it with his gaze knowing, just _knowing_ it was a fake. There was no other reason why Alex Woodbridge was murdered. Clara's eyebrows rose when Sherlock went to the extent of actually touching the painting. Fake or not, it _looked_ like a masterpiece. 'Uh...Sherlock...?' She muttered to herself when the man got down on his knees and looked at the painting from that angle. Clara clutched her head. _Weirdo_. At least he was up quickly.

Clara's breath hitched when an elegantly dressed woman sauntered into the room. 'Don't you have something to do?' The lady asked stiffly. She had a strong Eastern European accent.

Sherlock didn't turn around. 'Just admiring the view.'

'Yes lovely,' she snapped. 'Now get back to work.'

Sherlock spun around and walked towards her. 'Doesn't it bother you?'

'What?'

'That the painting is a fake?' He snarled. Clara would have been trembling in her boots if she was in the lady's position.

The lady frowned at him. 'What?' She spat angrily.

'It's a fake, it _has_ to be. That's the only possible explanation.' He was closer to her now. Like she was prey. He glanced at her identification badge. 'You're in charge aren't you, Miss Wenceslas?'

'Who are you?' Wenceslas demanded.

Sherlock was in her face now. Staring her down. 'Alex Woodbridge knew the painting was a fake, so someday sent the Golem to take care of him. Murdered and dumped in the Thames. Was it you?'

'Golem?' She repeated. 'What the hell are you talking about?'

'...Or are you working for someone else? Did _you_ fake it for them?'

'It's not a fake!' She snapped, straightening her suit jacket.

'It is a fake.' Sherlock rubbed his jaw. 'Don't know why, but there's something wrong with it. _Has_ to be.'

Miss Wenceslas pointed a delicate finger at him. 'What are you on about? I could have you sacked you know, on the spot!'

'Not a problem,' Sherlock shrugged. Clara grinned from her hiding place.

'No?' Wenceslas raised a manicured eyebrow.

'No. You see, I don't work here. Just popped in to give some friendly advice.'

'How did you get in?' She demanded.

'Oh, please,' Sherlock replied scornfully.

'I want to know.'

'The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight.' He began to walk away and took off the cap.

 _'Who are you?_ '

'Sherlock Holmes.' He dropped the cap onto one of the posts with perfect aim.

Wenceslas crossed her arms. 'Should I be impressed?'

'You _should_ be.' Then the jacket came off, deliberately dropped to the floor. Clara thought her ovaries would explode **(Yes your author said that and she has no shame)**. Sherlock almost danced out of the room, shoving the door open as pompously as he could after wishing Miss Wenceslas a nice day.

Clara peeled herself off the wall she had graciously positioned herself a moment before. She handed him his shirt but shrugged on the coat. The ends trailed on the ground. She strutted ahead of him and flamboyantly flicked the collar up. 'Very funny,' Sherlock growled.

'Humph. I think I'd make an excellent Sherlock Holmes.'

'Strange aspirations for the vertically challenged.'

Clara shoved him into the wall. She wasn't sorry.


	16. Dare Me

So I just finished writing the first draft for the finale a.k.a the pool scene. I will take any ideas if you have any, it's not in cement yet. Merry Christmas for tomorrow! And I watched the new Star Wars movie and loved it so if anyone wants to have their say just write a review or PM me.

Also, I will be deleting past author notes from now on, just to let you know.

-SPOLIER ALERT-

CAN SOMEONE TALK ABOUT DOCTOR WHO WITH ME OH MY GODS MY POOR BABIES HE FORGOT HELP AND SHE DIED. AND HE WENT BACK TO GALLIFRAY

 **MushyBooma** , **Stalking** **FancyBear** , **Gothic** **Fairy Girl** , **lizzybrown** , **DoctorWhovian135** , **sandsterrance** , **lluvkovumiki** , **rowexz** , **Chrwythyn1971** , **salod1** , **inspibrain101** , **mimico10** , **Azrael Darkfire** and **trat199816** …..so many!

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : Thanks for the review, I always look forward to seeing what you have to say!

 **Oslock** : What do you think of the latest doctor who episodes? I'm dying to hear what you thought of Clara.

 **Emz6347** : THANK YOU FOR CORRECTING ME! Plus Clara in Sherlock's coat makes me do the same thing!

 **Keirstinpaige** : eeeek I know!

 **CresantShooter123** : Sherlock needs Clara to scold him sometimes :)

Kili, out.

* * *

The sun was slowly disappearing behind the endless buildings of London by the time Clara and Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street. Clara was grateful for it as the long day running after Sherlock, inspecting dead bodies and generally being awesome was very tiresome. Hopefully Mrs Hudson had a roast on tonight. She jumped out of the taxi and dragged herself through the door of 221b. 'Why do we have to do so much exercise?' She grumbled over her shoulder at the detective.

'There is a bomber on the loose and you're worried about _exercise_?' Sherlock shot back fiddling with the godforsaken pink phone.

'Oh leave me alone Shirly,' she spat and clunked up the stairs. 'I'm going to make a soufflé.'

'Don't you have your own kitchen?'

'My oven died yesterday. You missed the funeral,' she sniffed reproachfully.

Up in the kitchen and lounge area, Sherlock was brooding near the window while Clara had put on 'Habanera Aria' **(music played by Clara in asylum of the daleks by the way)** by some orchestra so loud that it blocked out any conversation. It nearly made the still boarded up windows rattle in their frames. Baking a soufflé was Clara's type of therapy. She could remember her mum and calm down from all the challenges of the day. She put on a bright red apron that was hiding under the sink and got to work amongst the microscopes and Petri dishes. Everything was going strangely perfect. The batter was absolutely fluffy and the smell coming court of the oven was to die for. Clara swayed around, looking at the weird things in the kitchen. Sherlock was pacing in front of the fireplace with his brows creased. Sherlock suddenly raced down the stairs after spotting someone out the window just as the oven dinged. Clara forgot about her soufflé and sprinted down the stairs after the detective. When Sherlock ran, you ran too.

Outside, John had just stepped out of a cab. Clara hurried out in her apron to find a homeless girl calling out for spare change with a tin in her hand. Sherlock and John were talking. Something about Alex Woodbridge knowing nothing about art. Sherlock was heading towards the homeless girl. 'Is that it? No habits, no hobbies, personality?' Sherlock asked quickly.

'No, give us a chance. He was an amateur astronomer! Oh hello Clara, you have flour in your hair.' John smiled.

Sherlock stopped dead, listening to his friend. 'Hold that cab,' he ordered at Clara before going over to the homeless girl.

'Hold that cab,' she said nudging John and followed Sherlock.

John grumbled something but did as he was told. 'Spare change, sir?' The bedraggled girl asked.

'Don't mind if I do,' Sherlock said and was handed a piece of folded paper. He opened it and smiled briefly. 'Fortunately I haven't been idle.' They went over to the cab where John was inside. 'Clara, no. You are _not_ coming,' Sherlock suddenly said.

Clara folded her arms. She had never _not_ gone before. 'Excuse me?'

'Too dangerous.' He stepped towards her; his tall lanky figure diminished hers.

'Danger is my middle name,' she snapped.

Sherlock grabbed her shoulders and made her step backwards towards the 221b door. 'No. You are not coming this time.'

'Don't manhandle me!' She growled, now standing inside the doorway. 'I am your _supervisor_ , I have to come.'

'Too dangerous,' he repeated and promptly slammed the door in her face.

By the time Clara had yanked the door open again the boys were halfway down the road. 'Those stupid, utter, ugh SHERLOCK _BLOODY_ HOLMES!' She screeched. A cab seemed to materialize down the road and Clara waved her arms like windmills to get its attention. ' _Follow that cab!_ ' She shouted at the driver brandishing money in his face. 'You are going to wish you never lived Cheekbones...' She muttered murderously.

.

The boys' cab twisted in and out of streets to the murkiest most feral part of London. They got out at a place the cabbie said was called Vauxhall Arches. Clara jumped out of the cab when the boys were just leaving. She made sure the cabs were far away before approaching. Then Sherlock couldn't send her home like she was a five year old. Sherlock gazed up at the sky and said 'beautiful isn't it?'

'I thought you didn't appreciate things like that?' Clara sang from behind them.

'Clara?!' John exclaimed. 'What the hell are you doing?'

'I told you to stay home!' Sherlock scolded.

'Like I'd miss out on this bit of fun.'

'Were going to find the Gollum!' John whispered angrily.

Clara's face turned a shade paler. 'I knew that,' she lied.

'You're scared,' Sherlock taunted in the dark.

'Dare me then. Dare me to find him and I won't be scared.'

'Sherlock, she should be safe at home!' He gave his friend a warning glance.

Sherlock had a dark gleam in his eyes. How he loved to study people. Now he would see what Clara was made of. 'I dare you to find the Gollum.'

Clara shrugged and snatched the torch out if the detective's hand, full of false confidence. She walked off into the darkness with the boys hurrying after her. 'You idiot!' She heard John hiss at his friend. They muttered on about a 'Professor Cairns' for a bit while Clara was swinging her torch on mouldy sleeping bags and cardboard boxes. In the distance, a shadowy figure began to stand up. Clara suctioned herself to the grimy wall. 'Sherlock! John!' She whispered and pointed to the shadow which was over seven feet tall.

'What's he doing sleeping rough?' John asked.

Sherlock peered round the corner. 'He has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won't wag, much.'

John started patting his pockets, looking for something. 'Oh shi...' He swore.

'What?' Clara hissed, keeping her eye in the tall shadow.

'I wish I'd...'

Sherlock pulled a gun out of his pocket making Clara's eyes turn into big brown orbs. This _was_ serious. 'Don't mention it,' Sherlock said handing the gun to John.

Clara gasped as the tall man suddenly made a break for it. The boys sped off with Clara following close at their heels. They turn another corner to see him getting into a black car and racing off. Sherlock punched that air in frustration. 'No. No, no, no, no! It'll take us _weeks_ to find him!'

'Or not,' John said. 'I might have an idea where he is going.'

'What?'

'I told you. Someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can't be _that_ many Professor Cairns in the phone book. Come on.'

The boys trotted off and Clara followed behind, feeling like she was going to faint from the sheer terror infused excitement of it all.


	17. My Holmes

Guess who is BACK!

I honestly can't wait till Mary comes into this fic, plus Sherlock's parents ;) ANDDDDD I have finished the final chapter of the great game! YAY! I can't wait till you lovelies can read it PLUS after that we get to meet Miss Adler muhawawaww...

Awesome fans right here: **daydreamer1008** , **RoxyStar05** , **Daughter of the Black** , **Jennybot19** , **fashiongirl23** , **DarkxxKnight** , **AppleDapple** , **TheyCallMeInsane** , **dear-darling-x-x**

 **Oslock** : I hope you enjoy Hell Bent when you see it, I loved it, I nearly cried.

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : OF COURSE it has value! I love hearing what you have to say!

 **CresantShooter13** : Thank-you so much!

 **Guest** : Haha I'm glad you like the ship!

 **AppleDapple** : You're reviews are amazing! Thanks for the support!

 **G** (Guest): Haha, sorry to keep you waiting.

 **thatlittlebluebox** : There, there, we're all trash for oslock here ;)

 **thedogzoo** : The Doctor will appear in this fic later on. I'm not so sure about incorporating other characters as its the clara/11/12 timeline. If there were any characters you would like to see please let me know!

* * *

Clara sat very very still in the cab as it whizzed around London. She held onto the small torch she had with white knuckles. They had never done anything like this before, well not with her anyway. First it had been the shoes that were Carl Powers. Then there was the blood found in the abandoned car and after that was the death of Connie Prince. It was escalating, from shoes to blood to a body and now, chasing after a deadly assassin. What would tomorrow bring? Sherlock was actually _insane_. Yes, Clara was scared behind her wits. Yes, she would kill Sherlock if they all died tonight. But, no matter how frightened she was, if Clara was asked by John or Sherlock to take a cab back to the flat, she would refuse. She loved this, this other evil side of London that Sherlock lived for. Loved the chasing, the finding and dare she say it, the bloody showing off.

John swiveled in his seat and opened his mouth as if to say something, 'No,' Clara interrupted. She shook her head defiantly. 'I am staying with you two and that is final.' Her voice was steady, even if her trembling hands weren't.

' _Clara_...' Sherlock growled warningly from his seat at the window. She watched him flick his gaze up from her trembling fingers to her brave face, connecting the dots.

She shook her head. 'I am _staying_. And you can't do anything about it.' She crossed her arms and stared into his grave eyes. She knew what he was thinking. If that one Skype call hadn't happened she might not be here today, about to take on an assassin who was over 6ft tall. Clara Oswald would not go home because of a detective trying not to be his usual selfish self.

Sherlock's gaze hardened. Clara shook her head in response. _No_. The detective gave her a warning glance. _You know what could happen_. She frowned and raised an eyebrow. _You're being ridiculous, Cheekbones_. It was Sherlock's turn to frown. His grey eyes were hard as steel. _Go home. We can't keep you one hundred percent safe here_. _What are you thinking, coming to fight a killer?_! Clara raised her eyebrows and folded her arms as if saying: _I can take care of myself and you know it. Who was the one sulking the whole night after the old lady, huh?_

Sherlock grew flustered and shook off a worried glance from John. Sherlock was about to say something out loud to the stubborn woman when the cab screeched to a stop. Clara jumped out before the detective could lock her in and send her home. 'Are you two okay...,?' John asked as his two other friends stalked off into the night.

'Fantastic!' Clara cried loudly. Sherlock didn't answer. John was sure if she was being sarcastic or not.

The walk into the building was silent and with a flick of a pocket knife the doors were open. The group hurried towards the a loud audio narration, something about the solar system. It kept on jumping randomly with white noise in between. Clara shivered involuntarily. John had his gun out as they rounded the corner and into a dark lit theater except for a massive projector. He aimed at the massive figure in the shadows. 'Golem!' Sherlock shouted and raced towards the assassin.

Clara gasped when she realized another smaller figure was in the hands of the assassin. Professor Cairns. The Golem grunted in surprise and snapped the neck of the smaller figure with a _crack_. He dropped her to the floor but her fingers dragged across the knobs and buttons at the projector. The video started fast forwarding again, plunging the theater into darkness. Golem dropped out of sight. 'John!' Sherlock called out.

'I can't see him, I'll go round,' John replied, with his weapon at the ready. The footage on the screen was fast forward again, lighting the theater up as bright as the sun, only to plunge it into darkness again.

Clara ran down the stairs to the platform at the bottom, trying to spy Sherlock. 'Who are you working for this time? Dzundza?' Sherlock asked loudly from somewhere in the darkness.

Clara followed his voice, only to see that she wasn't the only one with that idea. The giant assassin was behind Sherlock in an instant. 'SHERLOCK!' Clara screamed in warning. It was too late, Golem had his huge hand plastered on the detectives face and nose. Sherlock clawed at the hand but to no avail. He was slowly suffocating.

John came out of the shadows with his pistol. His hands were steady as rocks. 'Let him go, or I will kill you.' His voice didn't waver as he pointed the gun at Golem's head. Clara breathed out quickly, her mind racing. Sherlock could die, or John could die. She looked around the room trying to go find something, anything, to help. To her left, was a thick microphone stand amongst other sound equipment. She raced over and grabbed the metal object. With a yell more suited to Braveheart, Clara barrelled towards the Golem's back and swung as hard as she could. Even with rubbish grades in P.E, Clara still managed to slam the solid metal pole into the back of the assassins legs with a satisfying crack. The assassin growled but wasn't going to be taken down by a short woman wearing a red apron.

The Golem swung Sherlock around so he was thrown across the room, into Clara. With a long leg he also kicked the gun out of John's grip. The breath was knocked out of Clara as Sherlock sent them both skidding on the ground. She coughed loudly, pinned beneath the rather heavy detective. 'Sher _lock!'_ she wheezed.

Sherlock grunted and rolled off her and scrambled up. They both saw John trying to wrestle the gigantic assassin. As Sherlock regained his balance, John was pushed into him by the Golem and the boys tumbled to the floor. Clara sucked in another breath and grabbed the microphone stand that lay bent on the floor. With all he might she swung it at the assassin's head but he merely deflected it with a huge hand. Sherlock scrambled up and got into a boxing stance to face the Golem. He looked extremely short and insignificant.

Sherlock threw a punch but in a flash he was on the ground again. The Golem reached down and clamped his hands on Sherlock's face. He squeezed with immense force. 'HEY GANDALF!' Clara yelled at the top her voice, trying to divert the Golem's attention. She hoped this impromptu plan John had whispered to her a moment before would work. He grunted and looked up, no, _down_ at her. 'Yeah that's right Big-Bird, I'm talking to you! Now get your hands off of _MY HOLMES!'_

The Golem raise a hand and took a swipe at her just as John threw himself into the assassin's back. Clara was clubbed on the shoulder with amazing force. She was thrown back across the floor and didn't get up again.

The Golem roared at the person on his back and released Sherlock. The assassin spun around and clawed at John. He shook the short doctor to the floor. As John groggily rubbed his head, the Golem turned around and grabbed Sherlock like he was a rag doll. He threw the detective across the floor into John. As Sherlock slid across the ground he grabbed the forgotten pistol. He aimed and fired at the Golem but the giant man was too quick. He disappeared out the entrance. 'Long dead, exploded into supernovas...' The projector narrated as an image of an exploding star lit up the room. Sherlock angrily slammed his hand down onto the floor and growled something incomprehensible.

John was with Clara, prodding her till she woke up. 'Clara? Clara, come on...' Clara jumped up with a start and waved her arms blindingly in the darkness. 'Clara!' John exclaimed.

'My, my, my...' she trailed off, slightly delirious. 'My soufflé! I left it in the oven!' She cried.

'Your soufflé, _Jesus_. Come on.' John didn't know whether to cry or laugh.


	18. She'll Kill You

It's been a while but I hope y'all still hanging out for this fanfic! Massive thanks to **greatlittleking** , **Riley Wolffang** , **Vashta** **Narada** , **Invented Girl** , **equineprobie** and Zelia Storm Wayne

 **PhrophetofDoom** (guest): Oh thank you! That just make me fill like a balloon with happiness, I'm so glad you like it!

 **RoxyStar05** : Haha :D

 **Rin-s666** : Oh thank you!

 **Oslock** : This chap is kind of a filler…..thanks for all the help!

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : Thanks for reviewing, I look forward to reading your opinion as always!

 **CresantShooter123** : I know the soufflé! We're all going down with this ship!

.

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ANNOUNCEMENT:

This fic is now on Wattpad! My wattpad username is **ItsAKiliThing** and its still called Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

'You two are going to the hospital,' John decided as he examined his friends in the theatre.

'Dot be ridiculous, I'm fine,' Sherlock spat angrily.

John pointed his finger at his flatmate. 'You could have a concussion and Clara needs her ribs checked out.'

'We are _fine_ ,' Clara said.

'No, you two are definitely not fine. Look, just a check up at the hospital and then you can leave.' Clara scrunched up her nose. She didn't like hospitals all that much. Too much disinfectant and not enough windows. However, John seemed final on this idea. One thing he was good at, was ordering people around. Well, maybe not Sherlock but he seemed awfully cooperative when he heard that Clara need her ribs checked out.

'But _you're_ a doctor,' Clara protested as they walked out into the chilly night air.

'Well we don't have an X-ray machine in our flat, do we?'

'Traitor,' she muttered murderously. Usually John had her side, aka, whenever she was arguing or complaining about Sherlock. Which was a lot mind you. 'Let's make a deal. If I can walk to the closest cab I don't have to go to hospital, deal?'

John sucked on his teeth. Clara raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

'Oh for gods sake!' Sherlock sighed loudly.

.

After the stalemate (that would have lasted eons if the two weren't dragged away by a pissed off detective), the three sat brooding in 221b. Sherlock was dejected after the failed attempt at catching the Golem. There was a three metre space around him that oozed with anger. Clara looked at the mess of papers on the wall. There had to be something connecting it all, there had to be something at the end of all of this great game. 'Why did you move to London?' John asked form his chair.

Clara pursed her lips. She was rather surprised by the question. She smiled over shed shoulder. 'Change of scenery, I guess.'

'Her mother died,' Sherlock snapped from his corner of misery.

Clara frowned. John opened his mouth in shock. ' _Sherlock!_ '

The boys were battling with murderous glares. 'It's true, but that was a while back.' She heaved a sigh. 'I wanted to stay and look after dad but he refused to let that happen.' She smiled wistfully. 'So I came here to London looking for a job, and I guess I have one. Though not my first idea.' She gave a pointed look at John and they shared a grin.

A phone blipped and Sherlock jumped up. He growled in irritation when he saw Clara pull out her phone from her pocket. 'Wow, she's up late,' Clara murmured. She tapped away on her phone rather slowly.

'Whose that?' John asked innocently.

'Molly. She just finished work and want to go out for drinks. Do you want to come?'

Sherlock narrowed his gaze at Clara. 'Why is _Molly_ texting _you_?'

Clara's eyes wandered round the room. 'Because we're friends now...?'

'Since when?!'

Clara frowned. 'Why are you so concerned? Mycroft introduced us after...going to Janus Cars.' She had to think on it for a minute before answering. 'She really is quite nice you know.' Sherlock made some kind of noise in response. His eyes flicked to the papers about Clara on the wall. Now that wasn't something he had been expecting. Clara and Molly, apparently two peas in a pod.

'Well I'm going for drinks with Molly and if you two want to come you can.' She wrote the address of the pub on a sticky note and slapped it onto the wall. Clara trudged down the steps. Oscar hissed loudly at Sherlock and clawed his pant leg before racing off.

'John...' Sherlock said looking at the cat with the strangest expression.

The doctor looked around then shook his head. 'No...no don't you dare. She'll _kill_ you.' But Sherlock was already rushing to the kitchen.

.

'It better wake up before she comes back...' John muttered staring at Oscar, the abnormally large cat. The animal was on its back with its paws frozen in the air. It's face was slack with a large pink tongue hanging out. It was drooling on the carpet. A door banged from downstairs and John swore. 'Wake it up Sherlock!' He urged.

But Sherlock was playing on his violin, a very happy jig sounded around the room. He was almost smiling, footsteps thumped up the stairs. Sherlock finished his song and relished the yell from Clara. ' _What have you done to my cat?!_ ' She shrieked and went down on her knees next to the animal. 'YOU'VE KILLED HIM!'

'Oh hardly,' Sherlock drawled in response. John prodded the animal with pen. Oscar's head rolled to the side making Clara moan in despair even more.

'Sherlock Holmes you better fix this or you are going to wish you have never been born,' Clara threatened from the side of her beloved pet. Her eyes were dangerously dark.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh, like it was an effort to answer. He walked over and pulled a thin tendered from his jacket pocket. In a swift movement he strapped it into the thigh of the cat. Clara let out a yell as the needle went in with no mercy. Clara looked desperately between the cat and Sherlock. Nothing happened. ' _Sherlock_ , -' John started.

'Give it a minute...' Sherlock said through his gritted teeth. And just like that, Oscar jumped up like he had been electrified. He hissed and yowled at everyone before racing upstairs.

'What did you do?!' Clara demanded, brushing off her knees.

Sherlock flicked his hand at her. 'Just an experiment.'

'You killed my cat!'

'Well he didn't look dead when he raced upstairs.' Sherlock frowned and turned to John. 'Don't they have nine lives or something?'

Before the doctor could answer Clara lifted up her purse and hit Sherlock with it. 'Don't- _whack_ -you- _whack_ -ever- _whack_ -do- _whack_ -that- _whack_ -AGAIN!'


	19. Hugs

Hiya Guys!

Sorry it's been a while. I've had MASSIVE writers block on the filler chapter between the Great Game and The Scandal in Belgravia. But...I got over it so I am allowing myself to post another chapter. I can't wait to post the final Great Game chap - I may sound selfish but I think its kind of epic... :)

And... has anyone watched Zootopia? I am in love with the characters and it was so much fun to watch.

Now I'm planning out the Scandal in Belgravia episodes. Sooo... if you have anything Clara-inspired to add to it, just let me know!

* * *

These people have made this story better by following/favouriting (you guys rock!): **hautenouveau** , **PrussianWeirdo** , **Sunswipe** , **Luthiel1** , **SleepyBella** , **sherlockedbyben** and **anamarie63**

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : I made you laugh?! YAy!

 **CresantShooter123** : And him doing something else stupid is clearly inevitable ;)

 **Oslock** : Oh you poor thing, I hope the universe is treating you nicely now.

 **Rin-s666** : Oh goodness, I'm so happy you like it!

 **Riley Wolffang** : Yeah I had to add the whole pet dying/Sherlock I'm going to kill you - reference from RDJr SH, I honestly couldn't help myself. Thanks for reading!

 **sherlockedbyben** : I know you reviewed the first chapter but I hope you get to read this: What you said was amazing! I was like, dancing, in my duck pajamas. THANK YOU!

* * *

Sherlock was standing in front of the Vermeer painting, tapping away on his phone. John, Lestrade, Clara and Miss Wenceslas were standing behind him. Clara peered over the detective's shoulder (quite an achievement for the vertically challenged). Sherlock was searching up topics like "Pigment analysis", "Vermeer brushstrokes" and "Canvas degradation". 'It is a fake,' he muttered, 'it has to be.'

'That painting has been subjected to every test known to science,' Miss Wenceslas butted in with a sniff.

'It's a very _good_ fake, then,' Sherlock spat back. He spun around and glared at her with his grey hawk eyes. Clara would have run the other direction if he looked at her like that. 'You _know_ about this, don't you? This is _you_ , isn't it?'

Miss Wenceslas turned to Lestrade, looking extremely exasperated. 'Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?' She had her hands on her hips and spoke in that clipped accent of hers.

In the middle of her sentence, the pink phone trilled from Sherlock's pocket. He took it out smoothly and answered the call. He held the phone out in front of him with the device on speaker. 'The painting is a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed.' Heavy breathing was all that came in response. Clara bit her lip. 'Oh, come on, proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved t, I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed.' John and Lestrade shared a worried look as silence came out of the phone. Sherlock took a deep breath to compose his mind. 'Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?' he demanded.

'Ten…' It was a small, trembling voice of a young boy. A _boy_.

As soon as Sherlock heard the sound he whipped back around to the painting. John's face was a mask of horror. ' _Sherlock_ ,' Clara murmured her voice was stone cold.

'It's a kid,' Lestrade gasped. 'Oh god it's a _kid_!'

'What did he say?' John asked quickly.

Clara looked desperately at John. 'He said "ten".'

'Nine…' the feeble voice echoed in the large room.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the painting. 'It's a countdown. He's giving me time.'

' _Jesus_ ,' Lestrade growled, rubbing his chin.

'The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How? _How?_ '

'Eight…'

John put a hand over his mouth. Clara looked over to Miss Wenceslas. 'You have to help him! T _his child will die_!' her eyes were desperate. 'Tell him why the painting is a _fake_!'

Miss Wenceslas flinched and began to open her mouth. Sherlock held up a hand to stop her.

'Seven…'

'No shut up. Don't say anything; it only works if I figure it out.' He spun round to the painting again. John walked away. The tension was unbearable, he started pacing. Sherlock started muttering to himself. ' _Must be possible. Must be staring me in the_ -' He turned around and met Clara's eyes. 'Face.'

'Six…'

She stared right back, brown eyes on impossibly grey ones. A million words seemed to pass between them. _Don't you dare_ – Clara's eyes said, silver tears lined them. _Don't you dare let a child die for your game_.

'Five…'

'Slap me,' Sherlock suddenly said. Clara's brows knotted in confusion. ' _Hit me_!'

 _CRACK!_

The impact sounded like a gunshot in the large room. Sherlock hardly flinched. The sudden pain made him think clearly, like the penny finally dropped. 'Oh, _oh_!' He looked at the painting then back at Clara. 'Oh I love you, you impossible girl!' he cried and kissed her forehead.

'Okay…?' She murmured. 'Are you feeling alright?'

'I am absolutely brilliant.'

'Four…'

'It's speeding up!' Lestrade warned.

'In the planetarium! You heard it too. Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!' He shoved the pink phone into John's hand as he skipped backwards from the painting. He pulled out his own phone and started tapping away.

'Three…'

'What's brilliant? What is?' John demanded.

Sherlock laughed in delight. Clara felt like slapping him again. 'This is beautiful, I love this!' he threw his head back in pleasure.

'Two…'

'SHERLOCK!' Lestrade yelled furiously.

Sherlock grabbed the pink phone and yelled 'the Van Buren Supernova!'

A pause that lasted a life time filled up the room.

'Please. Is somebody there?' Sherlock let out a relieved breath as the little boy's voice cried out of the phone. 'Somebody help me!'

'There you go. Find out where he is and pick him up.' Sherlock handed the phone to the inspector. John and Sherlock shared a look. 'The Van Buren Supernova, so called,' Sherlock told them while showing a picture of it on his phone over his shoulder. 'Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in the eighteen fifty-eight. Clara's exploding soufflé the other night prompted my memory.' He gave them all a triumphant look.

Sherlock walked away with Clara on his heels as John let out a relieved sigh.

.

Out the front of the gallery, Sherlock was lost for words. A minute ago Clara Oswald had flung her arms around him, trapping his own arms, in what humans call a hug.

'Clara, I-I, no not the hugging, please-Clara c'mon…..errr, help!'

'No way you insufferable drama queen,' she sighed, laughing to herself. 'I'm going to kill or hug you if you do anything like that again.'

'I'd prefer the killing, thank you very much.' She just squeezed him tighter.

'Oh oh, what do we have here? Mr Sherlock Holmes the great detective…..defeated by a hug.'

'Lestrade-help me… _please_.'

'No no no, you just hold still there,' Lestrade bit his lip as he got out his phone to snap a picture. Clara giggled.

'Please, I'll do anything. I won't insult Anderson next time, I promise.' He sounded so desperate it was almost funny.

Clara poked her head up. 'Send it to me please?' She asked sweetly.

'Anything for you Clara,' he smiled and winked at Sherlock.


	20. Children

Heyyyyy

We are on **99 REVIEWS** , I REPEAT NINETY NINE REVIEWS! AHHH! Who wants to be the one-hundredth reviewer? I've never ever had one hundred reviews or anything close to it in myfanfiction-life. YOU GUYS ARE ABSOLUTELY AMAZING.

Hope y'all like the new cover image...(I made it!)

* * *

Thank-you to: **kkamalyesh** , **GracieTeenBakerSt** and **ACatNamedToothless**

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : Eeeek! Thank-you! I wish we could all hug Sherlock!

 **CresantShooter123** : OH MY GOD DID YOU REALLY? I literally laughed for like ten minutes, this has made my day. I hope your family wasn't too mad!

 **Smaugtheconsultingdetective** (Guest): Wow your review is AWESOME. So the 11th doctor will be featuring in this fic, sadly only after the Great Game (sorry!). I'm not certain on the 12th doctor but I'm pretty sure he will be in it but (if I get there) it will be after the Reichenbach Fall. I agree, 12th Doctor and Sherlock will be bloody hilarious! By the way, the submitted pen name IS THE BEST!

 **Aubrey Cortez** : Wow, you have reviewed so many chapters! Thank-you. I hope you get to read this.

 **Oslock** : Yay! I'm so glad you like it and yes, Lestrade is shipping it like its Fedex! Hope you have a nice day!

* * *

Clara huffed as gravel of the railway lines crunched underfoot. She was carrying a very heavy pet cage, with Oscar, her abnormally large, murderous cat crouched inside. "I thought we were going to the vet," Clara remarked at Sherlock who was strutting beside her.

"I told you, he will be fine in half an hour," Sherlock sighed. "Besides, isn't this much more exciting?"

Clara deadpanned. "We've been stalking John _all day_."

"No, _testing_ John all day."

"Is this because you didn't want Mycroft finding out you actually took his case on?" Sherlock looked up at the sky. He became very interested in the clouds. Clara grinned. "You're _still_ fighting over who mummy loves more, aren't you?"

"Don't be childish," Sherlock spat.

"Oh, oh! Me? Childish? Now where did I get that from I wonder?" Clara's sarcasm was ruthless, today. Sherlock almost regretted experimenting on the feline. He shushed her as they rounded on John, who was squatting beside the tracks. He looked at them thoughtfully, the clogs in his brain whirring.

"Points," Sherlock stated from behind him.

"Yes!" John said, springing up and turning to Sherlock. He smiled at Clara though took a step away when her cat hissed. Its eyes were menacing bright orbs inside the cage. "How long have you been following me?"

"Since the start," Sherlock sighed. He smiled ruefully. "You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?"

"Childish," Clara remarked.

"Don't be rude," Sherlock replied smoothly.

"I'm the one with the cat remember?"

Sherlock spun on his heel and walked away. "Come on. Got a bit of burglary to do."

John and Clara followed behind automatically. "What happened to the cat?" John asked.

" _Sherlock_ , anesthetized Oscar and put him in the freezer," she answered with absolute malice. "Mrs Hudson found him, he's only just defrosting," Clara sniffed. "Apparently, he was being annoying. I mean, Mycroft is annoying and he doesn't get knocked out and shoved in the ice drawer!"

"There's one way of looking at it," John decided. "You were at….you were babysitting yesterday, right?" John scratched his head.

"Yes, just for a few hours. I used to live there and help the family after their mum died." Clara smiled warmly. "The kids – Angie and Artie – are great though."

"You, um, left a message on my phone about…finding the Wi-Fi? I couldn't get back to you," he said.

"Oh yeah…" Clara looked wistfully at the ground with a wide grin on her face. "I got another number for a helpline – best in the universe apparently!" John gave her a funny look. "Everything worked out, so don't worry."

A short while later they were walking down a simple street. There were cramped looking flats and leafless trees. It looked dreary with the overcast sky. "The missile defence plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service."

Clara laughed. "When you two were interrogating Miss Wenceslas, Mycroft came over looking for you two and he had two agents with him and they hid in Mrs Hudson's flat because Oscar chased them. Mycroft says one still has the scratches on his face," Clara said, making both the boys turn around in wonder.

"What?" She asked. They were looking at her with a strange mix of astonishment and admiration. Sherlock actually smiled at the cat. She shook her head at them. "So….you're saying that whoever has the memory stick can't leave the country. Which means they wither can't sell it or hasn't the faintest what to do with it, right?"

Sherlock gave her a strange look. "Yes…."

"Geez, catch up Cheekbones," she scolded. Sherlock was slightly mystified.

John cleared his throat loudly. "Yes, my money is on the latter. We're here," Sherlock finally composed himself with a shake of his dark curls.

"Where?" John asked. His brows were drawn together in confusion. Sherlock bounded up the steps up the side of a brick building. He rummaged in his pocket outside of a flat marked 21A. "Sherlock!" John shouted in an angry whispery voice. "What if there's someone in?"

"There isn't," Sherlock stated calmly. With a flick of his wrist, he picked the lock with a slender tool from his coat pocket.

John rubbed his chin as he watched his flat mate. " _Jesus_ ," he whispered. " _Clara_ , what are you…this is breaking and entering…" John muttered as Clara strode straight in after the detective, John followed too. "You had to bring the blasted cat…" he mumbled. Oscar seemed to hear him and meowed indignantly.

"Where are we?" Clara peered up at the short flight of stairs Sherlock had trotted up, into a living room.

"Oh, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat." Sherlock turned to John. "The cat will be very useful, I think."

John just gave him a confused look. "Joe…?"

Sherlock ripped the curtains from the one window and grinned at the sigh outside. "Brother of West's fiancé." Outside the murky glass was an extension that could be easily climbed down on from the window. It spread all the way to a wall. On the other side was a railway. " _He_ stole the memory stick; killed his prospective brother-in-law."

"The end," Clara muttered morbidly.

"Then why'd he do it?" John looked at the detective expectantly.

Sherlock smiled at the sound of a door being unlocked. "Let's ask him. Clara, give me the cat."

"What?" She exclaimed.

" _Give it to me now!"_ he whispered furiously. Clara handed over the cage. Sherlock opened the door and heaved the gigantic black mass that was somehow called a domestic feline.

Clara watched John reach round the back of his jeans and walk quietly to the door. Joe Harrison was wearing a courier's uniform and has carrying his bicycle. He saw John and picked up the bike to throw it. John raised his right hand which clasped a pistol. "Don't," John advised. Joe looked like he was going to keep on coming. " _Don't_ ," John said again firmly. Joe dropped the bike in frustration.

Joe was directed to the sofa, where three people and one humongous cat stared at him. Sherlock was holding the animal. He looked at Oscar right in the eye. "If he runs, you can eat him," Sherlock told the animal, and then placed him on the carpet. Oscar headed this comment and prowled sinisterly in front of the sofa. He hissed wickedly. Joe drew his knees together. "Look, it wasn't meant to…" Joe started in distress. Sherlock flicked his eyes away in a dramatic fashion. "God…." He rubbed his face. "What's Lucy gonna say? Jesus." He sunk into the sofa in denial. Clara felt a twinge of sorrow for him.

"Why did you kill him?" John's voice was calm and commanding.

"It was an accident." Sherlock snorted loudly. Clara slapped his upper arm. "I _swear_ it was!"

Sherlock looked ready to nail the poor man into the ground so Clara stepped forward. She smiled sadly. Her eyes were warm. "But stealing the plans for the missile defence programme wasn't an accident, was it?" She was so kind and open that Joe immediately told her.

"I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right?" He swallowed stiffly. Clara smiled encouragingly. "I dunno – I dunno how it started; I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands – _serious_ people. Then at Westie's engagement do, he starts talking about this job." Joe rubbed the back of his neck as he started remembering it all. "I mean, usually he's so careful; but that night after a few pints he really opened up. He told me about these missile places – beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick; he waved it in front of me! You hear these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and what-not. And there it was, and I thought… well, I thought it could be worth a fortune." He looked at Clara regretfully. "It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered. Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew." Joe looked guiltily at all of them. Oscar hissed warningly.

"What happened?" Clara asked softly. Joe told them about how Westie had fallen down the stairs.

"I was gonna call an ambulance, but it was too late. I just didn't have a clue what to do, so I dragged him in 'ere, and I just sat in the dark, thinking."

"When a neat little idea popped into your head," Sherlock finished in a clipped tone. "Carry Andrew West way away from here. His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't met a stretch of track that curved."

"And points," John added.

"Exactly."

"D'you still have it, then? The memory stick?" Joe nodded.

Sherlock gestured with his head. "Fetch it for me – if you wouldn't mind." Joe sighed unhappily but did as he was told. He disappeared into another room with Oscar following close behind. Sherlock walked towards the other two. "Distraction over, the game continues."

"Well, maybe that's over, too. We've heard nothing from the bomber."

"Five pips, remember, John? It's a countdown. We've only had four."

"It sounds like we're playing battleship," Clara yawned. A sinister game, indeed.


	21. Great Game Finale

The long awaited Great Game Finale - I give you...the pool scene!

* * *

Thanks to: **Ambassador666** , **JuliesCapulet** , **Dinosaur Imperial Soldier** , **djmegamouth** , **Klep** and **lonamoon**

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** :Congrats! You were the one-hundredth reviewer!

 **Aubrey Cortez** : I know right!?

 **LadyRedStar** (Guest): Eeeek! I hope you like this chapeter then!

 **James Birdsong** (Guest): I know! I can't believe I've written so many!

* * *

Molly Hooper unnecessarily tucked her hair behind her ear as she took a sip of her drink. "Has umm," she flushed red, "has Sherlock mentioned me lately?" She tried to appear as if this teensy bit of information didn't matter but her eyes were too hopeful and eager.

Clara coughed on her drink. "Oh, um…"

"It's not important really, I was just wondering…you know," Molly trailed off into a nervous laugh. She looked around the pub uneasily.

"Well we go to St. Barts a lot," Clara provided. Molly's crush was one that Sherlock exploited regularly. Clara made a mental note to chide him about it later.

Molly spun her glass around on the small table. "Are you and Sherlock, um…." She finished the sentence with an obvious but nervous grin.

Clara spluttered and choked on her drink. "Oh my goodness, no! God no!"

"Oh!" Molly seemed a bit too pleased. "Well, I just thought because you two hang around a lot and solve cases together and almost live together and the _things_ _Mrs Hudson_ _says_ …"

"Molly," Clara gave a warm smile. "I'm paid to supervise him, that's all. And Mrs Hudson is just gossiping as usual."

Molly smiled sheepishly. "Sorry, I just thought…"

"Don't worry, Molly! Okay?"

"Okay."

The nightly drinks at a pub had become a regular occurrence for the two women. Sherlock was the topic most of the time but now and then they laughed over what happened in the news or on telly. Sherlock would probably be confused on being the conversation starter most nights, but Clara, after talking with John, agreed that he would pretend to not be surprised.

Clara looked at her watch. "Whoops, I've got to be going; Mrs Hudson said she would cook dinner tonight." Clara waved good bye and trotted around the tables. She hailed a cab and slid onto the fake leather seats. "Baker Street, please," she directed. The cab peeled off, onto the road. It was a few minutes before Clara realised she wasn't on the usual route home. "Sorry, but you were meant to take the street a few blocks back." The cabbie didn't reply. Clara leaned forward and spoke loudly as they passed even more streets. "I think you're going the wrong way, I need to go to _Ba-ker Street_."

The cab screeched to a stop at a darkened area. Only one street light illuminated the area. Clara was jolted forward and managed to stop herself with her hand. "Where are we? Where have you taken me?" she demanded.

The cabbie got out and opened a door. Clara stepped out and was ready to scold the cabbie when a voice echoed through the darkness. "Hi, Clara Oswald," the voice was strange and slightly menacing. The words were pronounced weirdly as if the speaker didn't like the conventional form of talking. "I thought you might show up."

"Who is this?" Clara swallowed and watched as the cab sped off down the street.

"How's Sherlock? I really thought he would call."

Clara cocked her head to one side. "I know you, don't I?"

"Sherlock's right….He always goes for the smart ones. The less boring ones…" the speaker paused. "I guess that's something we have in common. Though, I don't keep them, unlike him."

"Who are you?" He stepped out of the shadows, dressed in an elegant suit and tie. Clara let out a shocked puff of air. "Jim," she murmured. "Jim, from IT."

"Jim Moriarty," he smiled with dead black eyes. "Hi!"

Then something stung in her arm and darkness swept over her head.

.

Sherlock opened the door to the darkened swimming pool. It squealed loudly at the hinges. Green décor with red and blue accents covered the place. The water glistened in the florescent lights. "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present," Sherlock said loudly while holding the USB up. "Oh, that's what it's all been for? All these little puzzles – making me dance. All to distract me from this." Sherlock was confident and stepped in a circle, waiting for a response.

Complete shock overtook the detective as John stepped out into the pool area. He was wearing a thick jacket and had one hand in his pocket. The other was handcuffed and slowly, Clara followed him out, handcuffed together. It was like a bullet to the stomach.

"Evening," John said. Clara was absolutely silent and her eyes were too crazy to carry any message. "This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?"

"John, what the hell," Sherlock asked softly, in disbelief.

"Bet you never saw _this_ coming," Clara said slowly, disjointedly. "What…would you like…me to make them say…next?" Sherlock moved forward. _Run_ , her eyes were saying, pleading him to get away. _Run you stupid boy_. "Gottle o' geer … Gottle o' geer … Gottle o' geer," Clara recited.

"Stop it," Sherlock snapped. John opened his jacket to where a laser pointer from a sniper marked a spot on the all too familiar bomb jacket.

"Nice touch, this, the pool where little Carl died," Jon narrated. "I stopped him," John cringed as he heard what was coming through his ear piece. "I can stop John Watson too, and Clara Oswald." John looked down at the sniper's laser. One appeared on Clara's chest too. "Stop their hearts."

"Who are you," Sherlock demanded, looking in every direction.

A door squealed open on the far end of the pool. "I gave you my number," the speaker drawled. He had a slight Irish accent. Sherlock avoided Clara's desperate gaze. "I thought you might call."

It was Jim, Molly's gay boyfriend. Only this wasn't a casually dressed Londoner. This was a sharply attired gentleman with immaculate hair and dead eyes. He strolled closer with his hands lazily in his pockets. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket…" he said as Sherlock removed the pistol from his trouser pocket. "… or are you just pleased to see me?"

Sherlock raised the weapon and aimed it at Jim. "Both," he replied in a clipped tone.

Jim stopped and looked back at the detective, unafraid. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!" Sherlock titled his head to look more closely at the man. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" He walked alongside the edge of the pool. Sherlock clasped the pistol in both hands. Jim bit his lip in disappointment. "Oh. Did I make such a fleeting impression, though that _was_ the point I suppose." Sherlock's eyes flickered to the lasers on Clara and John's chests. "Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." He stopped at the corner of the pool. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see." Jim looked up in surprise, almost mockingly. "Like you!"

Sherlock was a pot of simmering fury, but god this was thrilling. "Dear Jim. Will you fix it for me and get rid of my lover's nasty sister?" Jim grinned at the catchphrase. "Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

Jim stopped and smiled lazily. "Just so."

"Consulting criminal," Sherlock breathed. " _Brilliant_."

Jim smiled proudly. "Isn't it? No one ever gets to me – and no-one ever will."

Sherlock cocked the pistol. The sound echoed round the area. " _I_ did."

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank-you," Sherlock replied.

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did."

Jim shrugged. "Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over Sherlock…." His voice became high-pitched and sing-song like. "Daddy's had enough now!" he strolled closer. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut lose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid to get you to come out and play." John closed his eyes and Clara squeezed his hand. "So take it as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." Jim couldn't help but smile and look earnestly at Sherlock. "Although I have loved this – this little game of ours." He switched to a London accent. "Playing Jim from I.T," he went back to his normal tone, "Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

Jim walked closer, behind Clara. "Though I have to say Clara Oswald is a real charmer. But so bossy!" he gripped the bridge of his nose angrily.

"She gets inside your head," Sherlock whispered every word deliberate and clipped.

"She could be so brilliant," Jim turned to face her. "If only she was bad, like me. We would have the best times little Clara, I can promise you that." He looked away from her stare.

"People have died," Sherlock said, drawing the conversation away from Clara.

"That's what people _DO!_ " he screamed the last word furiously, his personality snapped in an instant. Clara flinched.

"I will stop you," Sherlock said. He didn't just say it, he meant it. In his mind it was a fact, it was decided.

Jim became calmer as quickly as he had snapped. "No you won't."

Sherlock looked across at John and Clara. "You alright?"

John didn't look directly at him, probably ordered not to. Jim walked forward till he was beside him. "You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead. And I know you're desperate to say something little Clara Oswald."

John just looked at Sherlock and nodded. "You don't have to do this," Clara said, calmly. "Listen to me, _please_."

"Honey, you're really bugging me right now," Jim said in a horrible American accent.

"Good, that means you're listening. What you're doing is wrong," she stated.

Jim shrugged and cocked his head. " _Well_ …."

"No, it is, and you know it. This is not a game. There are actual people with actual families to go home to and actual lives to live. You cannot play God, Jim." Clara's eyes could burn a hole through space and time itself.

Jim rolled his eyes and turned to Sherlock. "Man, your girlfriend is cool and all but c'mon, _ANNOYING!"_ He sang the last word in a loud whisper.

Sherlock held up the memory stick. "Take it," he said, deterring the line of conversation again.

"What? Oh! That." Jim grinned and strolled over. "The missile plans!" He snatched the USB and kissed it dramatically. He sighed and lowered the memory stick. "Bor _ing_!" He shook his head disappointedly. "I could have gotten them anywhere." Sherlock watched as Jim tossed the USB nonchalantly into the pool.

John took his chance and grabbed Jim round the neck while Clara was just dragged along with him. Sherlock backed up in surprise but kept his pistol aimed. "Sherlock, _RUN!"_ John commanded.

Sherlock didn't move. Jim laughed gleefully. "Good! Very good!"

"If one of your snipers pulls that trigger, Mr Moriarty, then we both go up," John growled savagely.

Clara stared agape at Sherlock. _What are you doing? Go!_ Sherlock was frozen. Every alarm bell was going off, rational or irrational, logic or failure, heart or head. _I can't just…_ He watched as tears threatened to spill over her cheeks. _Yes you can, don't be like this; there are bigger things than John and me!_ Moriarty was talking and John was scowling but they weren't listening. Time had stopped. _Clara_. A hundred thousand questions and answers in one name. Why was she never afraid? That was the beauty of her, she was never afraid, not truly. Fear would never fully consume her. Her self-less nature was impossible to understand.

"They're so touchingly loyal But, OOPS!" Moriarty yelled. He grinned menacingly at John and turned to Sherlock. "You've rather shown your hand their Doctor Watson." Horror was the word to describe John's face. Clara was just staring resolutely. Sherlock shook his head slightly as he registered what had happened. Multiple red laser dots were shining on his forehead. "Gotcha!" Jim sang.

John released his hold and stepped backwards. Jim gestured to his rumbled suit and gave long an indignant look. "Westwood!" He stood calmly in front of Sherlock with the pistol still aimed steadily at his head. "D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock?"

"Oh let me guess: I get killed." His voice was a deep rumble, almost threatening but with and edge of…glee. The game was thrilling and terrifying and brilliant and this could be the finale. But Sherlock would not endanger his friends for a game, he made a promise.

"Kill you?" Jim scoffed and grimaced. "N-no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, some day. I don't wanna rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. if you don't stop prying, I'll _burn_ you." Jim looked Sherlock up and down. "I'll burn the _heart_ out of you." His face contorted as he let out the low vicious snarl.

Sherlock replied in a soft tone. "I've been reliably informed that I don't have one."

"We both know that's not _quite_ true." Jim looked down and shrugged again. "Well, I'd better be off. It was so nice to have had a proper chat."

Sherlock raised his gun higher. "What if I was to shoot you right now?"

Jim was unperturbed by the threat. "Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." His face twisted again to form a wide open mouth and large dead eyes in an effort to look surprised. "'Cause I'd be surprised Sherlock, I really would. And a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long." He turned away and walked towards the exit. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock kept his gun ruthlessly aimed. "Catch…you….later."

The door squealed open. Jim's voice was high pitched and sing-song. "No you won't!" The door swung shut and Sherlock kept his gun aimed for a few more seconds. Then he placed it on the floor and rushed to his friends. He basically tore open the handcuffs with one of his tools and then ripped the bomb jacket off John.

John leaned his head back and took deep breaths through his mouth. Clara leaned on a post of one the change room stalls. She glanced at Sherlock and John briefly before closing her eyes. "Are you alright?" Sherlock asked them.

"Yeah-yeah, I'm fine," John breathed as Sherlock unfastened the vest. He jumped round till he was behind John and tugged at the garment. "I'm fine. Sherlock. Sh- _Sherlock_!" The detective stripped the jacket off John and skimmed it across the tiles, as far away as possible.

John staggered back. " _Jesus_ ," he whispered. The delayed shock seemed to hit him and he ripped the ear piece from his ear. Clara threw hers away and started pacing. Sherlock raced to the door Moriarty departed out of. He jogged back just as quickly, seeing no evidence pointing to where Moriarty went. " _Oh Christ_ ," John stumbled and grabbed hold of the changing cubicle. He squatted at the base of the stall.

"Clara, Clara, are you okay?" Sherlock asked with the same urgency from before.

"Yes, god…no." She wrung her hands and clenched her fists. "This doesn't happen to ordinary people, this just doesn't…." Oh how Sherlock wanted to tell her. She laughed worriedly and turned on her heels a few times.

"Are _you_ okay?" John asked breathlessly.

Sherlock was hyped with the adrenaline and scratched his head. How his mind was whirling! "Me? Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Fine." He turned to John and Clara, a hand in their directions. "That, er…. _thing_ that you two um, er, did – that, um…" he cleared his throat. "….you offered to do. That was um… good."

Clara stepped forward to him and really looked him in the eye. "Did you just….?"

Sherlock glanced away. "Um, er, what?"

"You stupid boy," she said. Her face hardened and she slapped him. Hard.

Sherlock grabbed his cheek and his eyes popped. It really shouldn't have shocked him, it happened often enough. John gave him a look that meant he deserved it. "Clara, I- ah..." Her eyes softened but she slapped him again. "What was that for?" Sherlock demanded.

"Sorry, I just had to make sure you were real, that I was real, that what happened was real, sorry, sorry, _sorry_." Clara Oswald hugged him briefly and stepped backwards.

Sherlock rubbed his cheek. "I um, I guess you're right," Sherlock mumbled just as she said, "it was the shock, the adrenaline, I'm in shock, sorry." It was a mess of words.

"I'm glad no one saw that," John mumbled.

Sherlock rubbed his chin with his hand. "Hmmm?"

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, then…getting...slapped." He shuddered. "People might talk."

Sherlock shrugged. "People do little else." He was wondering if women got lessons on how to slap. How do they get it just in the right, most painful spot? They grinned at each other. John started to snort with laughter. Clara smiled and bit her lip.

Their happiness turned to horror when laser beams started dancing over their chests. The door at the deep end of the pool banged open. Jim Moriarty entered again with a grin. "Sorry boys, I'm sooooo changeable!" he cried cheerfully. He spread his arms wide with a chuckle. "It is a weakness in me but, to be fair to myself, it is my _only_ weakness." He lowered his hands and put them in his trouser pockets. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but…." He laughed gleefully. "…everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

The gun was still on the ground, stark against the concrete. Clara could see it, they needed it. Moriarty was slouching lazily in front of them. He had won, he was the king atop his castle. The red dots on her chest felt as if they were burning holes through the fabric, through her skin. She stepped forward nonetheless. John drew a sharp intake of breath as her heels clacked on the cement. Sherlock's eyes were so wide and intent, as if he could talk to her through his gaze. A long instrument was poking out of her sleeve, inside her palm, behind her back. It was silver and bronze with a green end. Then the fingers on her other hand started tapping. "Why are you doing this?" Clara asked boldly. "I should at least know why I have to die." Her fingers tapped and realisation hit the boys behind her right in the face. Morse code, it was Morse code.

Moriarty shrugged. "Clara, Clara, Clara...you're a friend of Sherlock Holmes! C'mon, you knew it would be dangerous!" His dead black eyes narrowed. "Now tell me what you just told them. You may be brilliant little Clara, but not as smart as the big...bad...wolf."

More red dots burned across her collar bone. "I can tell you one part, but you have to keep it a secret," she whispered. All eyes were fixed upon her, it was mesmerising.

"Naturally..." Moriarty drawled in a playful tone. "Now come on, you've got the rest of your life remember."

Clara swallowed, looking at the lasers. "I said, don't worry about them," her eyes brightened. "Because they will all be watching me." She flicked the instrument behind her back.

The lights erupted and pure darkness descended. Moriarty roared and the lights flickered on in a second. But a second was all it took for Sherlock to race forward and snatch his gun off the floor. Moriarty was staring down the barrel.

Moriarty's dead eyes were full of malice. "That's cute," he whispered and blew a kiss to Clara.

" _Sherlock_ ," she murmured. Her brown eyes looked at him pleadingly. Sherlock glanced at John. He nodded resiliently. A silent agreement to do what had to be done. Sherlock pointed the gun at the bomb jacket. John was breathing heavily while Clara was holding her own breath. Sherlock was calm when he locked eyes with Moriarty. Jim began to smile. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Moriarty and Sherlock stared darkly at each other: two madmen in a silent battle of wits.

The stalemate was interrupted by the song "stayin' alive" echoing tinnily round the pool. Jim closed his eyes and sighed dramatically in exasperation. "D'you mind if I get that?"

"No, no, please," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. It was his turn to narrow his eyes. "You've got the rest of your life."

Moriarty rolled his eyes as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line. "Hello? Yes of course it is...what do you want?" He mouthed 'sorry' to which Sherlock replied 'no, it's fine' in the same manner. Suddenly Moriarty spun around in fury. "SAY THAT AGAIN!" Clara jumped and Sherlock frowned. "Say that again, and know that if you're lying, I will find you...and I will sssssskin you." He drew his hand out in a fine line while his eyes bulged to exaggerate the point. "Wait..." He gazed at the bomb jacket for a moment. "Sorry. Wrong day to die," Moriarty told them thoughtfully.

"Oh, did you get a better offer," Sherlock asked casually.

Jim looked at his phone a pond turned away. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." He strolled away, bringing the mobile back to his ear. "If you have what you say you have, I'll make you rich. If you don't, I'll turn you into shoes." Moriarty raised his right arm as he reached the exit and clicked loudly. The lasers disappeared and Jim Moriatry disappeared from sight.

Clara leaned against the shower stalls. "Oh my gosh..." She whispered.

Sherlock rounded on her like a shark. "What's that device? Give it to me!"

"Thank you would have been nice," she hissed.

"How did you...how do you know morse code?" John looked bewildered.

"Jane Austen and I had loads of fun with it," she muttered ruefully.

"That was completely, utterly stupid!" Sherlock said angrily.

"We could have DIED!" She shouted back. They were locked in a staring contest.

"You two are doing the thing again...the silent argument thing..." John rubbed his brow and heaved a sigh. "What happened back there?"

Sherlock looked incredulously at Clara and stutter out something unintelligible. "Um, I-I..." His brows knitted together. "I, um..."

Clara stalked off leaving a stuttering Sherlock Holmes.

"Ah, Sherlock?"

The detective cleared his throat and straightened his jacket nervously. "He, um, he got a better offer. Someone changed his mind."

"Who?"

"Quite right, John. Who, indeed."

"Are you okay...Did Clara not say something in the staring thingy...?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock ruffled his hair in exasperation before striding towards the exit.


	22. Cluedo

Hiya!

So guess who started fangirling now they have over one hundred reviews?! ME! Eeeeek *becomes blubbering mess* As a treat I updated sooner :) Plus this chap is over 2,000 words - my treat!

Thanks to: **C.C. Capitols** , **thelastofthelords** and **Very-Awkward-Llama**

 **CresantShooter123** : Thanks!

 **LadyRedStar** : Soooo close to Irene! I honestly can't wait to post it!

 **Aubrey Cortez** : Haha fangirling with you tooo!

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : You will have to wait and see...

* * *

"Why are we even doing this?" John groaned as they crowded round the coffee table.

Clara shuffled the cards as best she could. "Because the criminal classes are on holiday," she responded. It was code for Sherlock won't stop _bloody_ complaining.

John shook his head. "This will end badly, I can already see it."

Sherlock harrumphed and snatched the cards from Clara's grasp. "Hey!"

"Your shuffling skills are unsatisfactory," he muttered and proceeded to shuffle the cards in an elaborate fashion.

Clara narrowed her eyes. " _Fine_ , you can be Mrs. Peacock," Sherlock blanched, "John can be Professor Plum and I'll be Colonel Mustard," Clara finished off devilishly. She grinned. "Oswald for the win! Os _win!"_

"Who's the victim then?"

"Miss Scarlet of course," Clara replied. "I always think it sounds rather theatrical." Clara slipped three cards into a small envelope and placed it into the centre of the board.

"Everything about this game is theatrical," Sherlock argued.

"You would know, Mrs Peacock," John grabbed the dice and thrusted them at Sherlock. "Let's actually start."

The Cluedo board was old; one of Mrs Hudson's that Clara borrowed in an effort to silence the detective. They had gotten over the pool saga rather quickly though neither John nor Clara wanted to encounter Moriarty anytime soon. None of the three had talked about it, though the occasional mention in passing kept them on their toes. Clara wasn't at Baker Street that often now; apparently Mycroft had her supervising another problem child. Sherlock was incredibly miffed.

However, he was intrigued by her absence. He didn't have anyone to row with now that both of his neighbours were out working. Occasionally he would walk into the kitchen expecting to find Clara with flour on her nose but she wouldn't be there. No cases, no Clara. What had the universe come to?

Cluedo was an experiment that was going increasingly downhill. Sherlock observed the board in a serious silence. When they eventually persuaded him to roll the dice further explanations of the rules followed. "Have you never played Cluedo?" Clara uttered, she couldn't believe it.

"I prefer the more practical sense." He pointed room. "Reverend Green can't have done it, he was-"

" _Sherlock_ , it's not about guessing. Use your," John threw a notepad at him, "Bloody piece of paper to work it out."

Sherlock gave him a look. "I'm deducing the possible suspects and ruling them out, isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

" _NO_ , you have to play by the rules."

"Well the murderer didn't do that so why should I?"

Clara cleared her throat loudly. " _AS I am_ in the library, I believe it was Reverend Green, in the library using a candlestick."

"Well that's completely incorrect, as I was saying Reve-" Sherlock started but was cut off abruptly.

"You're meant to show me a card-"

"Card? What card?"

"Oh, _jesus_ …"

Clara sighed. "In front of you, Cheekbones. Now if you have a card that has Reverend Green or the Library…"

"Or the bloody candlestick," John continued. "You have to show it to Clara – but only one card."

Sherlock's eyebrows screwed together and he made a face. "But I have all of them, what's the point in that?"

Horrendous grumbling and exasperated explanations were not to be quenched as the detective made more trouble than he was worth.

"The victim did not kill herself!" John snapped.

Sherlock shrugged. "That or she faked it, hard to tell at this point."

"Where did she get the body then?"

Sherlock stood up and pointed at the board. "Have you seen the size of that kitchen? She could have hidden another body anywhere."

"Cluedo isn't about that," Clara sighed. "There is _always_ a culprit."

"There is no other way! Mrs White was obviously indisposed in the Billiard Room with Colonel Mustard. Judging from the layout of the house and the hidden passageway from the study to the kitchen, it is clearly plausible."

"No it isn't! IT'S BLOODY CLUEDO!" John raged.

"Look! I'll open the envelope!" Clara intervened. She picked up the paper and splayed out the three cards. "It was Mrs White, in the Hall, with the dagger."

Sherlock yelled something incoherent. "Impossible!"

Suddenly they were all shouting. Mrs Hudson came up the stairs only to be nearly decapitated by the flying Cluedo board. The landlady hurried back down as fast as her squat legs would carry her. Clara walked up and held the offending piece of cardboard. "Sherlock it's a game, and you lost, so…" She grabbed a handy knife off John's laptop and stabbed the board to the wall.

"Mrs Hudson will kill you for that!" Sherlock responded.

Clara crossed her arms. "No, she'll put it on your rent and scold you for it. Don't pretend it's not true."

"I'll…" he was lost for words. Sherlock wanted just one victory. "I'll tell her it was you!"

"Ha," John laughed. He looked down at his shoes when Sherlock faced him. He coughed innocently.

.

"God, why is everything so _boring_?" Sherlock lounged in his armchair casually in a blue dressing gown.

"Am I boring?" Clara poked her head out of the kitchen.

She watched Sherlock roll his eyes. "Right now you are," he muttered.

Clara pointed her spatula menacingly at him. She raised one of her eyebrows. "Do you want me to ever play Cluedo again?" A blob of left over mixture dripped onto the floor.

Sherlock spun around in his chair and faced her. "Would you really?" He looked like a child trying to hide their excitement. _How could someone be both smart and childish at the same time?_

She licked some of the latest soufflé off the spatula suggestively. "Maybe…." He narrowed his eyes. "What's in it for me, cheekbones?"

"Aren't I charming enough?" He sniffed and spun around. Clara could see his bare feet jittering on the carpet.

"Not during Cluedo!" Clara laughed to herself. God, the victim couldn't really _fake their own death_. John had had to take a walk to let off some steam after that match.

Sherlock spun back around, desperate. "What about monopoly?" His eyes glinted sharply at her.

"I always lose."

"Why wouldn't you? You're playing skills are appalling!"

"It's based on _chance_. How on earth does that make my skills appalling?"

"You're not as bad as John," Sherlock allowed, not looking at her.

Clara put her hands on her hips. Her mouth quirked to the side mischievously, even though Sherlock wasn't looking. "Dare I say it, but was that…. _a compliment?_ " She spoke the last part in a stage whisper.

"Your soufflé is burning…." Sherlock drawled from his seat. The light filtered through the window glinted off his hair…lord…..he looked like a model for silk dressing gowns.

"A compliment from a Holmes, it must be Christmas!" She beamed up at the ceiling.

"Thank goodness it isn't." Sherlock shuddered.

"Has my birthday come early? Have I died and gone to heaven? Are you an alien imposter disguised as the magnificent Sherlock Holmes?" This _had_ to get a reaction.

"Either shut up or go murder someone," Sherlock snapped almost playfully.

Clara grinned. "Not an alien then."

.

"How's Molly?" They were still in the flat, hopelessly bored to death. He couldn't find the mysterious object Clara had used to turn off the lights at the swimming pool. _Anything, give me anything, a murder, a suicide, a bloody case!_

Clara dumped her burnt soufflé into the bin with a clang. "How's Moriarty?" She snapped back. Questions, questions, questions. Why was her 'profile' still pinned to the wall, why was John angry _again_ , why was that man dead, why wasn't that lady a suspect…..was Clara infuriating or was she that helpful voice in his head, the nagging second-guessing thoughts, the constant reminder of humanity and humility? Sherlock didn't know and he didn't like no knowing.

Sherlock's eyes slid to her 'profile' hidden in a shadow. _Impossible_.

"You shouldn't treat Molly like you do," Clara's sharp voice jolted him out of his thoughts.

"Sorry?"

"Molly – you take advantage of her crush on you!" Clara ripped off her apron. "You're awful to her."

Clara. She was burnt soufflés and fire and sincerity. He shrugged, unperturbed. "She doesn't seem to mind."

"She goes out of her way for you and you just be…." She pulled at her hair. "Arguhh, you!"

"Well I can't change that, can I?" It always led to this. When nothing was interesting they poked each other's buttons. _Throwing stones in a glass house. But shattering was both inevitable and impossible at the same time._ Sherlock shook is curls. _That word_.

"You can try! People change!"

He chuckled darkly to himself. "No they don't."

"You're not people," she replied softly.

"Finally reached that conclusion, have you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Cheekbones. You're probably more human than the rest of us." This turned his head. He took in her round face, her lank hair, the flour on her dress, cat hair on her stockings.

She smiled lazily. "Made you look," she said. _Liar_.

"Jesus…..Sherlock its mid-morning! Why aren't you dressed?" John thumped into the living room. _Snark and strong coffee and courage_.

"When did you leave? You were just here a minute ago."

" _No_ , I was here _yesterday_. I stayed the night at Jane's."

"Who's Jane?" Sherlock demanded just as Clara muttered "Girlfriend."

"Ah…" Sherlock responded. "Another one?" he murmured to Clara inconspicuously as John padded into the kitchen.

"Same one," She whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

"Nurse?"

"School teacher."

"I can hear you!"

.

John was updating his blog at the living room table when the effects of Clara's absence were starting to sink in. Sherlock was brooding more than usual and hardly ever changed from his sleepwear. He was leafing through a newspaper across from John, in a red dressing gown.

"What are you typing?" he interrupted, sipping from his mug of coffee.

John's fingers clacked on the keyboard. "Blog."

"About?"

"Us."

Sherlock tilted his head. "You mean me."

John paused. His fingers hovered over the keys. "Why?"

"You're typing a lot." John had barely opened his mouth when the doorbell rang. "Right then," Sherlock sighed and stood up, stalking towards the door.

Over a period of many weeks, 221B had been busy with people coming to consult with Sherlock, the increasingly popular detective. Each client would sit in a chair facing a fireplace as he or she wailed, grumbled or whispered about their problems. Clara's warm nature usually put people at ease from her spot at the table or the kitchen. Without her presence, clients seemed rather daunted by the icy detective. John missed her way of speaking over Sherlock so he didn't frighten or upset anyone too much. Plus the way she stabbed him with a pencil when he was being annoying.

Sometimes she was there, others not. Mycroft had given her a very busy job. Some days she wasn't home till late. Mrs Hudson was always asking after her.

John knew his blog was becoming an item of envy or hate for Sherlock. Later that day, Sherlock was using a magnifier glass to inspect the strange spots on a deceased woman. "Do people actually read your blog?" Sherlock had asked. Lestrade watched, disinterested, from the other side of the table.

"Where d'you think our clients come from?" John squinted at the pale flesh on the woman's shoulder.

Sherlock moved his magnifier down the arm. "I have a website."

"In which you enumerate two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash. Nobody's reading your website." Sherlock straightened and snapped his magnifier shut. He glared at John and pouted momentarily. "Right then," John continued. "Dyed blonde hair, no obvious cause of death except for these speckles, whatever they are…" He pointed at the tiny spots but Sherlock had already turned on his heel and flounced away.

Lestrade pointed at the corridor. "Is this cause Clara's gone?" He rumbled in a whisper. "Cause its bloody well getting on my nerves. He needs to cheer up or… I dunno."

On another distinct occasion, John knew Clara had to come back sometime soon. Two little girls sat politely together on one dining chair while Sherlock paced in front of them. "They wouldn't let us see Grandad when he was dead. Is that 'cause he'd gone to heaven?" Her high pitched voice asked innocently.

Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to them. "People don't really go to heaven when they die. They're taken to a special room and burned."

The two girls looked at each other in obvious distress. John covered his face. " _Sherlock_ …"

Sundays were the best days because Clara had the whole day off. John told her about the trip to Southwark. There was a body in a car boot but apparently the deceased should have died in a plane crash in Germany the day before. He had napkins from the flight, a boarding pass and even those silly biscuits – all from the said plane. His passport was definitely stamped in Berlin Airport. She raised her eyebrows. "Lucky escape," she decided.

John chuckled. "That's what I said."

Clara wasn't completely isolated from the cases the boys observed. Lestrade was always texting her tabloid nicknames or when the boys got a big article. Mrs Hudson cut pictures out and stuck them on her fridge. They were an internet sensation and Clara teased them relentlessly. John wanted to drag her along when they knew press would be present, just so she could get some payback. An article or two would be all it took to shut her up.

One fateful day, Clara happened to take the wrong left and ended up getting the fright of her life. "Sherlock!" she held a hand to her heart. "You're wearing a sheet!"


	23. Buckingham Palace

It's been soooo long! Well it feels like it anyway. How is everyone? I hope life is treating you nicely. If you ever need to talk please just message me, I won't bite!

Thank-you to: **Amaria Celeste Worth** , **Iferrier3** , **TLM9312** , **crossMIRAGE19** , **GateBreaker** and **Ichigo0-0Rose**

 **Aubrey Cortez** : Haha, I hope I don't ruin your expectations.

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : ME TOO! I can't wait for you all to read this!

 **ASerrenn** : You reviewed so many times! It was such a treat to read through them all. I cannot thank you enough! Yes, I have seen the RDJ Sherlock Holmes movies.

* * *

Sherlock was surprised when Clara stumbled into the room. It was an accident; she had been expecting a set of stairs. She tilted her head in confusion. "Sherlock!" she uttered, looking him up and down. "You're wearing a sheet!" His dark hair contrasted with the single white sheet wrapped around him like an ethereal toga.

"What on earth are you doing here?" John asked. Unlike his flatmate, he was in his usual getup – plaid shirt tucked into clean trousers and his everyday jacket. "We're in _Buckingham Palace_." He looked at the elegant ceiling like he still couldn't believe it.

Sherlock looked her up and down, glancing over her tartan dress, cardigan, gloved hands and dark tights. " _Oh_..." he murmured.

Clara walked over and seated herself in between the men. She eyed the folded set of clothes on the ornate coffee table in front of them. "Are you…?" She trailed off, looking down at Sherlock. _Wearing any pants?_

"No," he replied nonchalantly. He didn't need her to finish the sentence.

Clara sat back, blushing. Her eyebrows nearly disappeared into her fringe. She looked at John, who looked at Sherlock who looked at Clara. They burst out laughing. Clara covered her mouth and dipped forward.

John gestured to the amazing room. "Buckingham Palace, fine." He loosed a breath, trying to restrain himself. "Oh, I'm seriously fighting the impulse to steal an ashtray."

Sherlock and Clara chuckled together.

"What on earth are you two doing here?"

John gave her a look. "I could ask you the same question!"

"I'm _supervising_ ," she responded.

Sherlock shrugged. "She is good at it." His lips quirked. "She's had lots of practice."

"Clearly not!" John laughed, his eyes bright. "He's in a bloody sheet for Christ's sake!"

Was it impossible to not get the giggles in this situation? Clara clutched her stomach and hid her smile behind her hands.

"What are we doing here Sherlock?" John asked, somewhat seriously. "Seriously, what?"

Sherlock grinned. "I don't know." The carpet was rich, the furniture immaculate and ornate furnishings blooming from every doorway or windowsill.

Clara turned to him, a curtain of hair drooping forward. "Here to meet the Queen?" she suggested.

Mycroft Holmes chose that precise moment to enter the room. "Oh, apparently yes," Sherlock muttered.

They all cracked up again. Mycroft looked at them in exasperation, smoothing his immaculate suit. "Just for once, can you two, or should I say three," he glared at Clara, "Behave like grown-ups."

John snickered. "We solve crimes, she babysits, I blog about it and he forgets his pants, so I wouldn't hold out too much hope."

Sherlock gazed at his brother without the slightest hint of humour. "I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft," he spat.

"What, the hiker and the backfire?" Mycroft's nose scrunched up. He always seemed to look like the stench of manure was constantly making his face contort in disgust. "I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious surely?"

"Transparent," Sherlock replied, in a clipped tone. John looked startled – Clara made a note to ask about it later.

"Time to move on then," Mycroft sighed. He picked up the pile of dark clothes and offered them to Sherlock. The younger Holmes gazed into space, disinterested. Mycroft heaved a breath and straightened. "We are in the heart of Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation," Mycroft glowered sternly at him, "Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on."

Sherlock shrugged. His shoulders moved easily up and down in his unusual garb. "What for?"

"Your client."

Sherlock stood up, his magnificent sheet made him look imperial but rather silly. "And my client is?"

"Illustrious," a voice answered. Everyone turned to look as another well-dressed Englishman entered the room. He had greying hair and was neat and tidy as Mycroft but with more humanity etched into his features. "In the extreme."

"Harry!" Clara greet warmly. Sherlock shot her a traitor's glare. It didn't stop her from pecking the newcomer on the cheek and exchanging kind words about his grandchildren.

Mycroft coughed loudly, spurring Harry into action. "And remaining, I have to inform you, entirely anonymous." Harry greeted Mycroft respectfully. They shook hands politely.

"May I apologise for the state of my little brother?"

"Full time occupation, I imagine," Harry chuckled good-naturedly.

Mycroft inclined his head as Sherlock scowled. "Yes, I have people hired." Harry took this as a joke but Holmes was very serious.

"And this must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers." Harry smiled a little and shook John's hand.

"Hello, yes," He replied. Clara could tell John was at least a little smug at this.

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog."

John started. "You employer?"

"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminium crutch."

John thanked him and tilted his head smugly at Sherlock.

Goodness, did Clara remember that adventure. For some absolutely absurd reason, Sherlock and Clara found themselves at a little stage theatre on the strand, watching a terrible play called Terror By Night. Though Sherlock grumbled and groaned at the tedious scenes, he was quite delighted in the end. The play had a 'Cluedo' feel and just as they were about to reveal the whodunit, a character went rage at another and hit them with an aluminium crutch. The crutch was meant to be rubber to not hurt the actors. When the man was struck on the head with the crutch, he was killed!

Sherlock had shot up like a bullet and clasping Clara's hand, rushed towards the stage. The crowd screamed and those who went to help the fallen fellow found he was quite dead. Somehow, the death was not classed as murder. Sherlock explained that the deceased had wanted to get the actor who had hit him fired by replacing the rubber crutch with an actual one. However, due to the fondness of scotch on the assaulter's behalf, the plan turned much worse than a jab to the shoulder. Whatever reasoning Sherlock deduced soared completely over Clara's head.

Harry stepped forward. "And Mr Holmes the younger," His eyes glinted cheerily, "You look taller in you photographs."

"Take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend," Sherlock replied blandly. He took a sharp breath and elbowed his way towards Mycroft. "Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work."

He faced to Harry and told him politely, "Good morning." Sherlock turned on his heel and began to saunter towards the doors Clara had entered from. Mycroft rolled his eyes and stepped on the end of the sheet quite calmly. Sherlock's momentum dragged the sheet from his body, revealing sharp shoulder bones. _Oh my goodness, the sheet is…._ He managed to barely grab hold of it before he was completely exposed.

Clara's eyes bulged and her chin dropped. She snapped her mouth shut before John could notice. Sherlock's wide shoulders tensed and the line of his spine grew ridged.

"This is a matter of national importance," Mycroft declared sternly.

" _Get off my sheet_ ," Sherlock snarled through gritted teeth.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll just walk away," he decided. Clara clapped a hand over her mouth.

"I'll let you."

John stepped forward, brows slightly creased. "Boys, please. Not here."

Sherlock nearly trembled with rage. "Who. Is. My. _Client?!_ "

"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Now for _God's sake_ …" Mycroft cut off his tremendous snarl and composed himself. "… _put your clothes on!_ "

Clara watched as Sherlock's torso heaved with a furious breath.


	24. The Dominatrix

I feel good, this was a quick update!

 ** _Okay, IMPORTANT QUESTION – would you amazing humans love to be able to follow a specific account on Instagram dedicated to this fanfic? I could post edits, some stuff about me – your lovely writer and you people could DM if you wanted to just chat or talk about this fanfic – Plus you could talk to me more often? Up to you lot!_**

Thanks to: **Wymaginowana** , **Avaricious reader** , **JustAnotherFanGirlHereToday** and **SwingingOnAStar**

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Once Sherlock had indeed put actual clothes on, the three sat down, the boys flanking Clara as Mycroft and Harry regarded them from the chaise on the other side of the glass coffee table. A flowery tea set was placed between them and Mycroft picked up the teapot. He smiled at Harry. "I'll be Mother."

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell," Sherlock drawled pointedly. Mycroft glowered at him and set down the teapot. Clara tried to give Sherlock a look from the corner of her eye.

"My employer, as Clara already knows, has a problem," Harry started. Sherlock's eyes slid to her suspiciously. Clara's hands shifted in her lap.

"A matter had come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and this hour of need, dear brother, your name had arisen." Mycroft inclined his head meaningfully.

"Why?" Sherlock responded. "You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?"

Harry studied the detective. "People do come to you for help, don't they, Mr Holmes?"

"Not to date anyone with a Navy," he replied nonchalantly. Clara fought back a laugh. John snorted. He managed to turn it into a cough.

Mycroft sighed. Clara wondered if it was an actual condition. She pondered briefly the cause of severe exhale-ment. "This is the matter of the highest security, and therefore of trust."

"You don't trust you won Secret Service," John interjected.

Mycroft's mouth stretched in a way that appeared to be a toothless smile. "Naturally not. They all spy on other people for money." John bit back a grin. He remembered Clara telling them her cat had attacked some of those men.

"I do think we have a timetable," Harry interrupted politely.

"Yes of course, um," Mycroft reached for his shining briefcase and opened it with a snap. He handed a glossy photograph to Sherlock. "What do you know of this woman?"

Clara nudged his shoulder, trying to see. It was of a dark haired woman. She had a handsome face and lavishly dressed. Sherlock's eyes flicked to his brother. "Nothing whatsoever."

"Then you shoulder be paying more attention." Mycroft spoke efficiently as he told them about the mysterious lady. "She's been at the centre of two political scandals in the last year. She recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with most participants separately." He articulated the last word deliberately.

Sherlock straightened as the information whirled around his brain. "You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is she?"

"Irene Adler, professionally known as The Woman."

John sat forward. "Professionally?"

"There are many names for what she does. She prefers 'dominatrix'."

"Dominatrix," Sherlock echoed thoughtfully.

"Don't be alarmed," Mycroft told him. "It's to do with sex."

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft smiled that snide toothless smile. "How would you know?" Sherlock raised his head as if wondering how best to devour the man across from him. Clara wanted to jab him in the thigh with a pencil. There was no time for games. She knew this at least. Mycroft exhaled again. "She provides, shall we say, recreational scolding, for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it." More glossy photographs were handed to Sherlock. "These are all from her website."

Sherlock's pale hands leafed through the large pictures. Clara flushed when she glanced at the elaborate but not very modest clothes the handsome woman had on. She snapped her eyes away and stared at the teapot. "I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs," Sherlock uttered blandly.

"You're very quick, Mr Holmes," Harry complimented.

"Hardly a difficult deduction," Sherlock drawled. "Photographs of whom?"

"A person of significance to my employer." Harry shifted in his seat. "We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."

Sherlock glared at the man angrily. John's eyebrows drew together. "You can't tell us anything?"

"I can tell you it is a young person," Mycroft offered. John sipped from his teacup. "A young female person." John's eyes widened and Sherlock smirked slightly. Clara wasn't surprised. She knew a lot more than they did at the moment.

"Do Miss Adler and the young female person appear in these photographs together?" Sherlock questioned with sharp grey eyes.

"Yes, they do," Mycroft answered.

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios?"

"An imaginative range, we are assured."

Sherlock was still staring straight ahead. "John you might want to put that cup back in you saucer now." The teacup rattled back down and John closed his surprised mouth.

"Sherlock, can you help us?" Clara asked somewhat softly.

He spared her a look. " _How?_ "

"Will you take the case?" Harry asked.

"What case?" He scoffed. "Pay her, now in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, 'Know when you are beaten'."

Sherlock rose and reached for his overcoat which was draped over the cream chaise. "She doesn't want anything," Clara said.

Sherlock turned round. "She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention of using them to extort either money or favour," Mycroft added.

"Oh a power play," Sherlock gushed, extremely interested. "A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that _is_ a dominatrix. Ooh, this is getting rather fun, isn't it?"

"Sherlock…"John warned.

He ignored John and picked up his coat. "Where is she?"

"Uh, in London currently, she's staying in…" Sherlock didn't wait for Mycroft. He picked his coat and stood, already walking away. "Text me the details. I'll be in touch by the end of the day."

The three men and Clara got to their feet. "Do you really think you'll have news by then?" Harry asked.

Sherlock spun around to face him. "No, I think I'll have the photographs."

"One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think," He said.

Sherlock looked him up and down. Clara didn't need to ask to know endless deductions were streaming into his brain. Finally, he turned to Mycroft. "I'll need some equipment, of course…"

"Anything you require. I'll have it sent to…"

Sherlock suddenly faced Harry again. "Can I have a box of matches?"

"I'm sorry?" The lines in Harry's face drew tight with puzzlement.

"Or a cigarette lighter. Either will do." He held out a hand expectantly.

"I don't smoke," Harry said.

"No, I know _you_ don't, but your employer does."

A confused pause followed till Harry reached into his suit pocket. He pulled out a lighter and handed it to the detective. "We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about that little fact, Mr Holmes."

"I'm not the Commonwealth," the detective rumbled back. He slid the lighter into his trouser pocket and walked away. "I need Clara too," he called back.

"And that's as modest as he gets. Pleasure to meet you," John nodded at the two men and followed Sherlock.

Clara heard her name shouted again. She glanced at Harry. His face softened. "Go on then." She pecked him on the cheek, shook Mycroft's hand and surprised them all by taking the opposite direction to what the boys had sauntered out from.

Harry inclined his head curiously. "Oh don't worry," Mycroft murmured. "They won't be deprived of her for too long."


	25. The Doctor

Uhhh so tired...

So guess who is appearing this chapter (doooooweeeeeooooo!)

Plus... I'm going to go see Panic!At the Disco next year!

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 ** _GUESS WHAT!_** My  INSTAGRAM account it up! Just seach for: **.** , you'll find me! DM is open so feel free to have a chat :)

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Thanks to: **BadWolfAlchemist** , **99** and **JustAnotherFanGirlHereToday**

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 **SwingingOnAStar** : Awww thanks!

 **Qwen Cooper** : Ooh secret secret ;) Plus... just wanted to check - is your pen name a play on Gwen Cooper in Torchwood? I adore Torchwood so it sounds kinda cool. If not - sorry!

 **Oslock** : Aww I hope your writers block vanishes soon, it's such a pain!

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 **SmaugLock** (guest): Thank-you soooo much! And do not fele like a terrible follower! I value everyone who follows/favourites/reviews my fanficiton!

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Clara ran her hand along the shiny railings and tiptoed down the stairs. It was called Time And Relative Dimensions In Space. The blue phone box. The _Tardis_. Clara grinned. The spaceship whirred angrily as she reached the consul. "Still don't like me then?" Clara ran a finger along the sharp edge. She admired the transparent cylinder extending to the ceiling and the green lights that glowed inside it.

"Cocktails on the moon?" A voice echoed down below. "What about crumpets with a Skaldak?" Clara rounded on him, crouched beneath the consul. She grimaced. "Just kidding."

 _The Doctor_ , that was his name. Square chin, floppy brown hair and always dressed in a button down shirt with a bow tie and suspenders. An alien, with two hearts. Best of all, he was a Time Lord and this was his time travelling machine. "I'm thinking more of," Clara tapped the consul as she thought. "Somewhere round London, you know…"

"Has Uncle Mycroft got another job for you…" the Doctor trailed off, fiddling with wires. Orange sparks landed on his chest.

"Don't call him that," Clara swatted his shoulder cheerfully. "But yes, I do have to go."

"Anyway, when can I meet those men you run round circles for?"

Clara sighed. "It's not….practical…" The Doctor harrumphed. "I'm serious! You would, I dunno, scare them!"

"Then I'm definitely meeting them!" He scrambled up, all awkward and gangly. "Coffee on Thursday?"

Clara put her hands on her hips. " _Sherlock_ doesn't like aliens," She reasoned.

"Sherlock? Isn't that a girl's name?" His face contorted reproachfully.

Clara sucked on the inside of her cheek. She titled her head. " _Please?_ " He stared down at her with ancient brown eyes. "Do you want me to get cab?"

"Fine. But…" He tapped her on the nose. "This _is_ a time machine, remember?"

Clara tried not to let her smile show. "Sorry, Chinny, my turn to rescue the humans."

The Doctor swung round and messed with the controls. The green light throbbed and bobbed up and down. The familiar groaning and wheezing of the Tardis filled her ears. "Hang on," she rounded on him. "How did you know where to go?"

The Doctor shrugged, flicking him suspenders casually. "Magic..?"

"Were you _spying_ on them?" She crossed her arms.

The Doctor clapped his hands nervously. "Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about…" He fiddled with the consul unnecessarily.

Clara's mouth quirked mischievously. "Are you _jealous?_ "

"No!" he snapped quickly, tugging nervously on his bowtie.

"Oh my god, you _are_ jealous!" She laughed, skipping round the Tardis. "Don't want to share?" She asked him smugly.

"Go save your humans," he yabbered angrily.

Clara waved once before slipping out the doors of the Tardis. Clara found herself in an alleyway, soft drink cans were littering the ground and a gust of wind made her skirt waft to the side. Clara saw Sherlock and John facing each other in a narrow street opposite. Her heels click clacked on the bitumen as she trotted over. Sherlock pulled his scarf off. "Clara!" John said, surprised. "Where did you come from?"

"The moon," she replied.

Sherlock handed her his scarf. "Right, John, punch me in the face," he pointed at his pale cheekbones.

John and Clara shared a confused glance. "Punch you?" John asked.

"Yes, punch me, in the face." He gestured to his cheek again. "Didn't you hear me?"

"I always here 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext."

"I'll punch you," Clara offered, stepping forward. She hadn't the faintest idea how to cause actual harm to somebody, but, Sherlock _was_ offering.

"Oh, for God's sakes," Sherlock lunged and smacked John right in front in the face with his closed fist. John reeled back, Clara stared at him, concerned. Sherlock shook out his hand and took a breath, bracing himself. John straightened and returned the hit with just as much force. Sherlock scraped his hands on the pavement, stopping his fall. Sherlock scrambled up and dabbing the cut on his cheek with his fingertips. "Thank-you. That was – that was…"

John punched his forcefully in the stomach, doubling the detective over. Clara squeaked in protest. John was on his back, trying to strangle Sherlock. "John!" she shrieked, more in surprise than any objection.

"Okay, I think we're done now John," Sherlock gasped. He tried to yank away John's hands.

"You want to remember, Sherlock," he spat savagely. "I was a soldier. I killed people."

"You were a doctor!" Sherlock replied.

" _I had my bad days!_ "

Finally, John let him go. Both the boys were breathing heavily. "Are we done here?" Clara asked weakly.

Sherlock massaged his throat. He mumbled something in response. Clara tied his scarf round her own neck impatiently. Sherlock stood up straight. "Come on," he wheezed.

They walked past two streets and finally rounded on an avenue of white, pillared houses, finalising the plan. Lush hedges poked between wrought iron gates here and there. Sherlock bounded up the porch steps and pressed the intercom. Clara hadn't realised a thin strip of white card was resting on his collar. He was pretending to be a vicar. She tilted her head curiously as Sherlock went from confident detective to whimpering minister. He dabbed at his face with a handkerchief, silver tears lined his eyes and dribbled over his cheeks. It was that easy for him to turn into someone else. Clara hardly recognised him.

"Yes, hello, yes, I've um, I've just been attacked…" He looked worriedly off into the distance. "They took my wallet and my phone," Sherlock blubbered in a different, high pitched tone. A voice crackled out of the tiny speaker. "Yes, please, can I just, can I just stay here? Till they come?" The intercom buzzed and the door creaked open.

They trotted inside quickly and closed the door. "Clara, start crying," Sherlock muttered quietly.

"What?" She whispered but he had pinched her wrist, making tears spring to her eyes.

"Thank-you, thank-you," Sherlock sobbed pathetically as a red-haired woman strutted elegantly into view. "They took my wife's phone and bag," he mumbled.

Clara yanked a tissue from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. Sherlock was still squeezing her fingers roughly in his hand, all for effect. "We're so sorry about this," Clara snivelled. "It was such a dreadful fright." Now that tears were actually falling, Sherlock loosened his grip.

"I - I saw it all happen. It's okay I'm a doctor," John said, closing the door. "Now, do you have a first aid kit?"

"In the kitchen," the woman answered with a smile. She gestured for Sherlock and Clara to enter an elegant sitting room. "Please."

"Oh, thank-you!" They sniffled as John followed the lady down the hall.

Clara stalked across the carpet and plonked herself down on the sofa. "What was all that about?" she hissed.

"You have gloves on, no handbag plus it was much more believable than another escort to the nearest house," Sherlock reasoned shortly.

Clara stared at her black knitted gloves. She hated to agree with him, though she was still mortified. "What now?"

"Stay in character."

Sherlock took off his coat and placed it over the white sofa. Footsteps click clacked on the floorboards in the hall. Sherlock and Clara started dabbing their eyes with their handkerchiefs. "Hello. Sorry to hear that you've been hurt. I don't think Kate caught your name," a posh, articulated voice said.

"I'm so sorry. I'm…" Sherlock's tremulous words stopped abruptly. Clara stared, shocked, surprised – completely frozen. A pale woman, with dark hair curled on top of her head, was stark naked, with the exception of high heeled shoes.


	26. Miss Irene Adler

Sorry about the last update, I didn't realise the Instagram username wasn't added (it's . ). Please come and check it out.

I literally finished this chapter underneath my blanket in the dead of night.

AND I FINISHED THE CURSED CHILD AND LOVED IT DESPITE THE PLOT HOLES. SCORPIOUS IS SOOOOO CUTE. What did you think?

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Thanks to: **SunnyMatilda** and **glynrh19**

 **Qwen Cooper** : I love Torchwood - Ianto is my favourite :)

 **Callpo** **:** I don't think so. I always thought of the Doctor and Clara as just best friends. He's just jealous because Clara has to run after another drama queen!

 **Oslock** **:** Haha, I cannot wait to write it! I have sooo many ideas.

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : Mmmhmmm Miss Adler is definitely in the house - this shall be interesting ;)

 **ASerrenn** : Goodness I have a GAZILLION. The meeting of Sherlock and the Doctor will ensure jealousy, drama and overall giggles.

 **CresantShooter123** : Awww thank-you, that was really sweet.

 **Smauglock** (guest): Haha I love writing the Doctor. He's just a massive child at heart. Plus I can't wait for P!ATD but it is next year...

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"Oh, It's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright, isn't it?" She was all sharp angles and tiny waist and long, long, long, long legs. Her smooth hips swaggered towards them and she stopped in front of Sherlock, shoulders back and posing with as many curves on show as possible. She was _naked_. Starkers, nude, de-clothed, whatever. It didn't matter, it didn't matter just how impossibly confident, radiant, stunning and naked Clara thought she was, no, it didn't matter because Sherlock was staring at her.

Clara wasn't very good at judging people. Sure, she could have a chat to anyone, but to tell what they were really thinking, especially someone like Sherlock, was a concept that went over her head. Travelling with the Doctor showed her people, aliens and planets she would never forget. This didn't mean she had answers to everything. No, she hadn't an idea of what Sherlock was thinking as he gazed up at Irene Adler. Sometimes she could see his sadness swirling around in his eyes or his glee sparkling in his irises when a difficult case came. She couldn't see anything, but he wouldn't or couldn't look at her.

Irene snatched the white card from his collar with shiny red nails. "There," she smiled, "Now we're both defrocked." The suave curl of her lips widened around her pearly white teeth. "…Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Miss Adler, I presume," Sherlock replied smoothly, in his normal voice. Clara wondered if she was actually invisible.

Her sharp eyes gazed down at him, calculating. "Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?" She suddenly snapped her teeth round the dog collar.

Clara felt a rush of rage. It was strange, she shouldn't feel protective. But no, Irene had commented on his _cheekbones_. That was Sherlock and her _thing_. It suddenly didn't feel as sacred, as beautiful as it used to be. Cheekbones and Soufflé Girl. Soufflé Girl and Cheekbones. Something close to resentment clawed at Clara's ribcage, angry, scratching, boiling and blubbering. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Clara was about to clear her throat but John wandered in, carrying a bowl of water and a napkin. He stopped, staring awkwardly. "I've missed something, haven't I?" He looked questionably at Clara. She looked at her tiny heeled boots.

Irene dragged the collar from her teeth. "Please," she watched John with glittering eyes. "Sit down." She turned away from Sherlock, who started to fidget. Clara couldn't bear to look at him, but she could feel his eyes sliding across to her. "Oh, if you'd like some tea I could call the maid," she offered.

"We had some at the palace," Sherlock told her.

"I know," Irene grinned. She folded herself up on an armchair. Her arms and legs placed purposefully to obscure her private parts.

"Clearly," Sherlock countered.

"I had tea too, at the palace, if anyone is wondering," John butted in. Clara wanted to smack him. _Men_.

Sherlock was still watching Irene. Clara could tell he was trying to make deductions. The small twitch in his lips and the narrowing of his eyes told her as much. He looked bewildered, she saw him turn and glance John up and down. Then he turned to Clara. She watched his eyes scrape over her dress, gloves and boots. They rested briefly on her face. She raised an eyebrow. _Seriously?_ His eyes twitched. _What?_ She sucked on the inside of her cheek. _Okay Holmes, naked woman clearly pining for your attention._ His eyes flickered angrily. _Okay Oswald, naked woman clearly_ not _pining for_ your _attention._ Two furious pink blotches appeared high on her cheeks. She looked away.

"D'you know what the big problem with a disguise is?" She interrupted. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at her. "It's always a self-portrait."

"You think I'm a vicar with a bleeding face?"

"No, I think you're damaged, delusional and believe in a higher power. In your case, it's yourself." _Touché_ , Clara thought bitterly. Sherlock undid the top two buttons of his shirt, returning to his former state of dress. Irene lent forward. "Oh, and _somebody_ loves you. Why, if _I_ had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too."

John forced out a laugh. "Er, could you put something please. Anything, um, a napkin?"

"Why," Irene asked wickedly. "You feeling exposed?"

"I don't think John knows where to look," Sherlock uttered in that stupid clipped tone. He looked purposefully at Clara. He stood up and held out his coat.

Irene stalked over to John. At least John didn't let his eyes waver lower than her neck. "No, I think he knows _exactly_ where to look."

Sherlock was still looking at Clara, even though Irene turned sensually towards him. "I'm not sure about you," she remarked, pursing her red lips.

"If I wanted to look at naked women, I would borrow John's laptop."

"You _do_ borrow my laptop," John muttered.

"I confiscate it," Sherlock snapped. He strutted over to the fireplace. Irene shrugged the detective's famous coat on. Clara remembered visiting the gallery and putting the coat on herself. She had actually made Sherlock smile, or at least insult her – which was practically the same thing. Clara felt betrayed.

Irene wrapped the coat around her. She perched herself on the sofa. "Well, never mind. We've got better things to talk about. Now tell me – I need to know." She adjusted her leg over her knee. "How was it done?"

"What?" he said.

Irene kicked off her heels. "The hiker with the bashed in head. How was he killed?"

Clara shared confused looks with the boys. "That's not why we're here," Clara said roughly.

"No, no, no, you're here for the photographs but that's never going to happen, and since we're just there chatting away…"

"That story's not been on the news yet. How do you know about it?" John still looked slightly bewildered. The napkin and bowl still rested precariously on his palm.

"I know one of the policemen. Well, I know what he likes," She offered.

John sat down beside her, squishing Clara out of the way. "And you, er, like policemen?"

"I like detective stories – _and_ detectives. Brainy is the new sexy." John's mouth dropped to the ground.

" _Positionofthecar_ ," Sherlock mumbled, nearly incomprehensibly. He was trying to drag the conversation back towards himself, but no one really heard. He started to pace. "Er…the position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire. That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That's all you need to know."

"Okay tell me, how he was murdered?"

"He wasn't."

"You don't think it was murder?"

"I _know_ it wasn't."

"How?"

"The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room."

Irene was still transfixed. "Okay, but how?"

"So the photographs are in this room," Sherlock remarked smugly. "Thank you. John, man the door. Let no-one in." He nodded and Clara and John, who walked (slightly reluctantly) out.

Clara shut the door behind her bitterly. She lingered on the handle, before pushing off towards a side table. "John?"

"Mmm?" he hummed out of the side of his mouth.

She picked up a magazine and rolled in up into a tight cylinder. She looked through the small hole at him, her other eye squished together. Spying John, she sighed and tapped the roll on the palm of her hand. "Don't worry," she muttered. John struck a match and held it to the tip of the colourful pages.

Black crept across the headline and the tips curled. Smoke swirled to the ceiling and the magazine flaked to the floor. The fire alarm beeped insistently in the stairwell. John snatched the magazine off of her and started whacking it on the sideboard. Fragments splintered off and embers decorated the wood. "All right, you can turn it off now!" Sherlock called from the sitting room. John waved the magazine round. Clara covered her mouth against the smoke. "I said you can turn it off now," they heard Sherlock cry louder.

"Yeah, gimme a minute," John mumbled. _Thwack_ , _thwack_ , _thwack_.

Pounding footsteps thundered down the stairs. Clara jumped as the fire alarm was shot off by a man holding a gun, followed by two others. The beeping stopped. The silencer on the barrel prevented any sound. The man was blonde, tall and broad. An earpiece trailed down his neck and into the collar of his dark jacket. "Thank-you," John said as they both raised their hands up in surrender.

"No talking, complete _compliance_ ," the main man said tightly in a thick American accent. His two friends curled their fingers round their guns.

"Not a problem," Clara breathed.


	27. The Americans

I'm back! Hope you all are safe and haven't been too all round for your awesome dedication.

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Thank-you to: **Naiia** , **Juplin** , **ElviraGatto** , **BisounoursEnGuimauve** and **Alessandra. 12** ,

 **CresantShooter123** : Jealous Clara was sooo fun to write!

 **Oslock** : Thank-you! Sherlock is quite the eye-catcher, whether he realises it or not.

 **TeamPercyJackson19** : Eeek! Thanks! That was really sweet.

 **Smauglock** (guest): I hope you love the Cursed Child, even just a tinsy bit

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : Damn straight!

(Guest): Thanks for reviewing!

 **DreamsAreMagical** : Haha, don't worry – I am writing it!

 **Smauglock** (guest): Two reviews – wow! Thanks! I'm so sorry that the suspense is too much! I just haven't had enough time to write! I went on this survival camp for a week and now there are exams and I'msooooo tired.

* * *

The door burst open and Clara was ushered through behind John. Neilson, the ringleader, pointed a gun at Sherlock. "Hands behind your head," he directed, and then looked at Irene Adler. The other woman pouted. "On the floor. Keep it still."

"Sorry, Sherlock," John sighed as they were all pushed to the floor. A man kicked out Clara's legs from underneath her so she crumpled onto the lavish carpet. She glared at Sherlock. _Do something smart, Cheekbones_. His eyelashes fluttered. _Why wouldn't I?_ Clara huffed to herself. The thing she had learnt about Sherlock is that what he thinks is smart isn't always the right move. However, what was right and what was wrong didn't matter at the moment because there were Americans pointing guns at them.

Wedged between Irene and John, Clara swallowed as Sherlock raised his hands further. "Don't you want me on the floor too?" he asked, politely.

"No, sir, I want you to open the safe," Neilson told him.

Sherlock tilted his head in thought. "American," he hummed. "Interesting. Why would _you_ care?" His eyes flicked to Irene curiously.

"Sir, the safe, _now_ , please," Neilson prodded, the gun never wavering.

"I don't know the code."

"We've been listening. She said she told you."

"Well, if you'd been listening, you'd know she _didn't_."

"I'm assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I'm assuming you didn't, Mr Holmes."

"For God's sake!" John abruptly exclaimed. His hands gripped tighter behind his head. " _She's_ the one who knows the code. Ask her!"

"Yes sir," Neilson continued in his loud, blaring voice. "She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets of the burglar alarm. I've learned not to trust this woman."

Irene straightened beside Clara. "Mr Holmes doesn't-"

"Shut up!" Neilson shouted. His face contorted briefly then back to a commanding mask. "One more word out of you – just one – and I will decorate that wall with the insides of you head. That, for me, will not be a hardship." Clara's brows drew together. What on earth was Irene Adler doing getting tangled up with these men, and what past encounters made Neilson so descriptive in his threats? "Mr Archer. On the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson."

"WHAT?" Clara and John both shouted. Someone prodded Clara painfully in the kidneys so she winced.

Sherlock glared like an animal. "I don't have the code," he said calmly.

John cowered, panting, as one of Neilson's minions pressed the muzzle of his Glock into the back of his head. Archer cocked the pistol with a frightening click.

"One…"

"I don't know the code," Sherlock seethed through gritted teeth.

"Two…"

"She didn't tell me." Sherlock looked like he wanted to spin round and punch something. His fingers gripped at his hair. "I don't know it!"

"Three…"

"No, stop!"

Clara closed her eyes. She only just realised she had been holding her breath. Sherlock swung round to the safe, delving into his mind. Slowly, he tapped the buttons, hesitating between each one. A smiled curled over Irene's red lips as the safe unlocked with a click.

"Thank you, Mr Holmes," Neilson said. "Open it please."

Sherlock twisted the knob; he briefly glanced at Irene, who ducked her head. He looked back at the safe. Clara turned her head curiously. "Vatican Cameos," Sherlock muttered urgently.

Clara was dragged to floor by John, who had lunged out quickly. Sherlock opened the door of the safe and ducked underneath. A gun shots sounded and a body thumped to the floor. A few seconds of action passed as more bodies hit the carpet and Clara struggled to move with John's arm pinning her down. "D'you mind?" she heard Sherlock ask and a battle cry from Irene followed as she swung a gun at a guards head. He crumpled like a leaf.

"John!" Clara grumbled loudly and insistently.

"Sorry," he replied and released his grip to go check on Archer. "He's dead," John informed them after pausing to touch the man's throat. Clara brushed herself off feeling incredibly disgruntled.

"Thank-you," Irene told Sherlock with a suave smile. "You were very observant."

"Observant?" Clara squeaked.

"I'm flattered," Irene continued.

Sherlock wouldn't look her in the eye. "Don't be."

"Flattered?" John asked. He always seemed to be in a permanent state of confusion.

"There'll be more of them. They'll be keeping an eye on the building." Sherlock rushed out of the room with a stolen pistol in his hands. John tucked another pistol into the back of his jeans and rushed out with the detective.

Clara trotted out through the foyer. "Shouldn't we call the police?" She snipped.

"Yes," Sherlock responded smoothly. He pointed the pistol high in the air and fired a few shots. Tires screeched a few blocks away. "On their way." He skipped back into the house.

"Sherlock!" Clara stopped him, shoving him back with her gloved hands. Her eyes were wide with shock. Her lips parted, aghast.

He rolled his eyes, scratching the back of his head with the weapon. "Oh shut up. It's quick." He slid past her.

Clara harrumphed and turned on her heels. She pranced down the little stone steps and walked resolutely down the path. A few seconds later, she heard Sherlock rushing after her. "Clara…" he caught her by the elbow.

"Don't manhandle me, Holmes," she snapped, yanking her arm from his grasp.

His dark brows crossed. "We're in the middle of a case and you want to go home?" he blabbered, not comprehending. "What's got into you?"

She gestured wildly with her hands. "Maybe I don't feel like being shot at or tackled or...gah!" She prodded him in the chest. He took a nervous step backwards. "Maybe I'm not in the mood for…" She swallowed, gaining a dignified air. "Skanky, blackmailing, harlots." She brushed a stray piece of hair back primly.

Sherlock put his hands on his hips. "You don't like her," he concluded.

"Exactly, Holmes – so I'd like to leave so you can go gallivanting about with _her_. Because _the-game-is-on_ , isn't it?"

"Clara you're being an idiot," he chuckled lightly, shaking his head. Clara whirled and glared daggers at him. As soon as Sherlock started jabbering about human error and female emotions Clara turned round and stalked off.

.

"I thought you were going on a date?" Clara grunted.

"Yeah, well…"

The present situation explained itself. Sherlock had been drugged by Irene Adler. Clara and John were supporting the delirious and unconscious detective as they heaved him up the stairs. Reaching the stairwell, they dropped him mercilessly onto the floor. "Do you think he felt that?" John panted.

"I hope so," Clara muttered. She kicked his leg. "Prick."

"Is he drunk?" A familiar voice questioned from at the top of the stairs.

"Oh, Greg, thank goodness. He was drugged by this woman and lost the-"

"Bloody photographs," John finished.

Lestrade took it in his stride and together they somehow dragged Sherlock into the living room of 221B. Sherlock started hallucinating, he waved his arms round, mumbling about something-or-other. "Donovan is going to love me," Lestrade cheered as he took his phone out and started videoing.

"Sherlock, Sherlock…" John grumbled, trying to stop the high detective from falling over the furniture.

Clara opened the bedroom door and helped to support Sherlock as he swayed from side to side. "It's impossible!" he suddenly exclaimed. It was almost theatrical. "Ridiculously impossible but it's the only solution!"

"Yeah, alright mate…c'mon…" John half pushed Sherlock onto the bed but he merely tumbled to the floor.

Lestrade started giggling from the doorway. Clara sighed and grabbed Sherlock by the forearm and got him on his feet. He staggered towards the bed and finally, finally, managed to flop into the middle. They rolled him over onto his side so he wouldn't choke on his own vomit.

"Wha-Why are you all in here?" Mrs Hudson bumbled in curiously.

"Sherlock was drugged," they all told her.

Mrs Hudson didn't seem at all perturbed. "Clara, I came to tell you," Mrs Hudson gazed sorrowfully up with her watery eyes. "Something dreadful has happened to your flat."

.

"Oh my goodness," Clara whispered, covering her mouth.

Plaster covered her room like snow and water turned the carpet black. A pipe had burst in the ceiling and water soaked through till the ceiling collapsed. All her possessions had drenched plaster clinging to them like mould.

"The builders are coming tomorrow afternoon but till then…" The landlady trailed off.

Clara tip toed through the mess and opened her cupboard. Her clothes were the only thing still dry. She dragged her suitcase from underneath her bed and bundled her clothes into it. Clara wanted to cry. It had been a long and stupid day and now her flat was destroyed. "It's fine," she murmured. "I'll sleep on their couch, they won't mind." She inhabited 221B enough anyway, it wouldn't be weird at all.

"Oh, good-o then. And Clara dear," Mrs Hudson clasped Clara's arm. "Mrs Tuner next door is moving out after Christmas anyway, but we'll talk about it later." Mrs Hudson trotted out of the room with a small smile, leaving Clara to meander slowly back up the stairs.


	28. Consequences

Hi guys, sorry for the wait. I've been writing this massive chapter (not this one though) and I had no inspiration! But as you can see, I finally got it done.

* * *

Thank-you to: **Blaze sorrows** , **Eli-the-crockodile** and **mjcameron**

 **DreamsAreMagical** : Same, it's incredibly fun to write

 **Aubrey Cortez** : Haha I think the Doctor (and Sherlock) would get very annoying!

 **Smauglock** (guest): I'm sooo glad you liked the Cursed Child! None of my friends really did And two reviews! Thank-you soooo much! I know her flat is destroyed….Oh and definitely the latter – aliens are easy compared to melodramatic detectives!

 **SwingingOnAStar** : Cheekbones?! Grovelling?! Haha only Clara could make him do that.

 **CresantShooter123** : Sherlock can be a bit of a dolt when it comes to emotions, he just didn't understand how Clara wasn't excited about the new Irene mystery.

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : Hahahaha Sherlock should have lollypops so he can give them to Clara when she's mad.

Guest: Yes Jack is soooo amazing, and incredibly sexual at times! Yeah the Cursed Child got a tad insane at moments.

 **ASerrenn** (guest): Haha thank-you!

 **PinkAwesomeCow** : Course he is, just read on!

* * *

Clara deflated on the steps of the TARDIS, she hung her head in her hands. It felt like her mind had become a blended mess of silly detectives and burnt soufflés. With an exhausted sigh, she pulled herself up and gravitated to the consul. "Doctor?" She called softly.

"Yowzah!" he replied loudly from beneath her feet. Clara tip toed down the metal steps and to the cramped space underneath the main consul. The doctor was on his stomach, fiddling with wires. His skinny legs twitched as a fizz of sparks shot into the air.

"Can we go somewhere?" Clara rested her head on her hand, leaning onto the nearest surface. "Somewhere, far, far, away."

"In a minute…" he squinted into the wire-ridden cavity and poked something with a screw driver. "I thought you'd want to be with that nasty detective of yours?"

Clara sniffed reproachfully. "Sunsets and aliens sound much more exciting," she said quickly.

The Doctor sat up swiftly, looking at her with his sparse eyebrows drawn. His chin protruded crankily. "Something's up," he muttered.

"Why would you say that?" Clara mumbled at her shoes.

The Doctor scrambled to his feet, his gangly legs bringing him closer. "One – you didn't contradict me when I called him nasty. Two – you're impatient to get away." He frowned down at her. "What happened?"

Clara rolled her eyes. "Can we just-"

"No."

"But it-"

" _Clara_."

She rolled her eyes, sucking on the inside of her cheek. "Look, I'm just being silly…"

"You and I both know I'm the silliest person in this room," the Doctor smiled.

A tiny grin tugged at Clara's mouth. "We were on this case and there was this _woman_ ," Clara scrunched her nose, "Anyway, Sherlock and I were fighting and then the roof fell in on my flat." She met his gaze again. "That's it, yeah?"

The Doctor tugged on his mauve bowtie, looking grave. "The roof, you say?"

" _Doctor_ ," she warned. "Stars and aliens, remember?"

"Sorry – short term memory loss, happens sometimes…" He ran up to the consul, taking the stairs two at a time.

Clara scuttled after him. "Doctor you are not going to my flat!" She protested.

"About time," he said, grinning like a lunatic and slamming down the handle on the consul. The green light in the glass tube bobbed as the TARDIS shuddered and wheezed. Clara and the Doctor held onto the railing for dear life as they sailed through space and time itself.

With hair tangled from the wild ride, Clara blocked the door to the TARDIS. "No," she said, shaking her head.

The Doctor straightened his bowtie and brushed back his floppy hair. "Why?"

"Aliens," she gestured to him. "Not aliens," she pointed behind her.

His lips wobbled into a pout.

"No! I'm not having these two lives mix!"

The Doctor's nose wrinkled. "Oh so the detective with the silly hair gets preference over a _time travelling box and a time lord?!"_

"I just don't want my detective-life mixing with my space-life."

"Hey, look a fez!" The Doctor pointed to the side with an animated expression, making Clara follow his eyes. He barged past her before Clara snapped out of the trick. He pulled open the door and skipped out onto a floor of wet plaster. "Eugh," he grumbled, flicking a string of it off his shoes.

Clara jumped into through open door way into the dry hallway. She watched the Doctor take in the room slowly, frowning. "So where does the detective live?" he pondered.

Clara rolled her eyes. _Subtle_. "Upstairs," she sighed.

Immediately, the Doctor whipped the sonic screwdriver that Clara had returned (after she stole it…) and it buzzed at the ceiling.

"Doctor!" She shouted in a whisper. "Don't be ridiculous!"

He pocketed the device. "Nothing unusual," he coughed.

"Of course there isn't! Now get back into that box of yours!"

The Doctor crossed his arms. "What happened to sunsets and aliens," he asked, annoyed.

"That ship sailed when you materialized into my destroyed flat," she uttered. A rule had been broken. "Now pop along."

Grumbling incoherently, the Doctor closed the door to the TARDIS grudgingly. A minute later the familiar, calming wheezing of the blue box sent Clara's hair wafting about. As soon as the TARDIS disappeared, she plodded upstairs.

Clara turned on her phone. It was one o'clock in the morning! Plodding into the living room, Clara turned the light on. The bottle green couch looked as lumpy and uncomfortable as ever. Her jumble of a suitcase stared back at her with overflowing seams. Clara walked down to Mrs Hudson's flat and stole a blanket out of the linen cupboard. Mrs Hudson was rabbiting on the telephone and didn't even realise breaking and entering was in process. She wouldn't mind anyway, Clara was adored by the landlady. Clara went back upstairs and flopped onto the leather sofa. It sunk down in the middle and lumpy bits of stuffing provided an uncomfortable back rest. Clara shut her eyes determinedly and pulled the quilt up to her chin.

.

Clara crunched on her toast with purple bags hanging below her eyes. Not only was the couch a form of constant torture to lie on, Sherlock woke up at odd hours in a state of delusion and Clara had to push him back into his bedroom. Sipping silently on a cup of the strongest coffee she could find, Clara dazed into space. She was seated at the tiny breakfast table opposite Sherlock – who was reading the paper in a maroon dressing gown – and next to John – who was demolishing his eggs and bacon with animal hunger. Mycroft stood nearby, the only well-dressed person in the room. He leaned on his umbrella and stared into space.

"Heard about the flat," Mycroft mumbled. Clara jolted. "Terribly sorry."

Clara smiled wearily. "S'okay."

"The photographs are perfectly safe," Sherlock interjected, flicking the newspaper.

Mycroft rounded on him. "In the hands of a fugitive sex worker."

"She's not interested in blackmail. She wants…" Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Protection for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?"

"How can we do anything while she has the photographs?" Mycroft nearly sounded whiny. "Our hands are tied."

Clara set down her cup. "I thought you said you'd get them, that day, in the palace."

Sherlock's eye twitched. "Well I didn't, did I?" he snapped back in that annoyingly clipped tone.

John twisted in his seat and smiled at Mycroft sarcastically. "Trouble in paradise," he commentated cheerfully. Clara kicked his shin underneath the table. He turned back to his plate with a grunt.

"Mmm," Mycroft sneered down at all of them. " _Evidently_."

Clara's mood blackened to the colour of her bitter coffee. Sherlock didn't even remember last night, I mean, she had carried him up the stairs. A little gratitude would be nice. Nonetheless, all morning she'd received the silent treatment. It was like two rolling thunderstorms inhabited the small space of 221B and who would be the first to spark lightning? And John had the audacity to think it was _funny_. Well it wasn't – Clara was living with them, till Christmas.

The builders came that morning and said there was too much asbestos to live there safely. It would take ages for them to clean it out anyway but Mrs Hudson was banned from renting the room again. So…Christmas, when Mrs Turner moved out, Clara would take 221A but till then…..She glared at the lumpy green couch. Something would have to be done. Clara swirled her tongue across her teeth, picking up stray pieces of toast. If John got a real girlfriend for a change he might move out. Sherlock and Clara used to laugh over the never-ending train wreck of relationships. Well, they used to.

Clara knew it was mainly her fault. Jealousy spiked out of her heart when she saw Irene Adler. Thorns of envy twisted round her neck when _Sherlock_ was just… _staring_. It was always Cheekbones and Soufflé Girl. Soufflé Girl and Cheekbones. Holmes and Oswald. Oswald and Holmes. That had shattered like a wine glass on kitchen tiles. Clara could not bear it being the not-so-smart-sidekick and Sherlock's face when she walked out of Irene Adler's posh flat. Like _she_ had betrayed _him_.

Suddenly, an evocative moan resonated from Sherlock's buzzing phone. "What was that?" Clara asked all too quickly.

"Text," Sherlock snapped back.

"But what was that noise?"

Sherlock rose and snatched the phone from the coffee table. His eyes flicked to the screen briefly. "Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft?" Sherlock said, drawing onto a different string of conversation. "Before you sent John and I in there?" Clara cleared her throat lightly. "And…er…Clara? CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess." Sherlock sat down at the table again, smoothing his dressing gown.

"Yeah, thanks for that Mycroft," John muttered, gesturing with his fork.

Mrs Hudson clip-clopped in and cheerily set another plate of breakfast in front of Sherlock. "It's a disgrace, sending you little brother into danger like that," She told Mycroft sternly. "Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up, Mrs Hudson."

"MYCROFT!" Sherlock and Clara both shouted together accompanied by John's indignant "Oi!"

Mycroft looked angry for a second, then cringed in regret. "Apologies," he offered.

"Thank-you," the poor old land-lady sniffed.

"Though, do in fact, shut up," Sherlock muttered.

Mrs Hudson was just turning back to the kitchen when Sherlock's phone emitted another lewd, orgasm. "Clara…" She started.

"No!" Clara gasped. "No it was his phone!"

"Oh…" Mrs Hudson smiled and stopped clutching her heart. "It's a bit rude, that noise, isn't it?" Sherlock glanced ever so briefly at his phone on the table. Clara wanted to snatch it from him. Sherlock twisted around in his seat to face his brother. "There's nothing you can do and nothing she will do as far as I can see."

"I can put maximum security on her," Mycroft thought aloud.

"Why bother? You can just follow her on twitter. I believe her username is 'TheWhipHand'."

"Yes, most amusing." Mycroft's phone jingled and he stepped into the hall to answer it. Sherlock frowned suspiciously after his brother.

"Why does your phone make that noise?" John asked, pointing at the device with his knife.

"Yes, _excellent_ question," Clara added.

"What noise," Sherlock wondered innocently.

" _That noise_ ," John said. "The one is just made."

"It's a text alert. It means I've got a text."

"Yes, no shi-" Clara started but was cut off.

"Hmm," John interrupted. "Your texts don't usually make that noise."

Sherlock riffled his newspaper in annoyance. "Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalized their text alert noise."

"Hmm. So every time that text you…"

The phone sighed indecently as if on cue.

"It would see so," Sherlock decided.

"Could you turn that phone down a bit? At my time of life, it's…" Mrs Hudson trailed off as she tip toed down the stairs.

"I'm wondering who could have got hold of your phone," John continued sceptically. "Because it would have been in your coat, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock raised the newspaper so it was nearly entirely obscuring his face. "I'll leave you to your deductions," he murmured.

John gave Clara a look. She just shrugged – arguing seemed futile. "I'm not stupid, you know?" John said.

"Where _do_ you get that idea?"

Mycroft wandered back in, saying: "Bond Air is go, that's decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later." He clicked off his phone and slipped back into his trouser pocket.

"What else does she have?" Sherlock demanded, lowering his shield. Mycroft just stared at him, feigning obliviousness. "Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more." He stared at Clara with powerful eyes. "There _is_ more, _much more_." Only stony gazes answered him. Sherlock rose, sneering at Mycroft. "Something big is coming, isn't it?" He said carefully, threateningly.

Clara tottered over so she had a Holmes on each side. "Irene Adler is no longer any concern or yours, or John's," She said, nearly in a whisper. "Stay out of it Sherlock."

"Oh," He scorned, looking down at her, condescending her. " _Will_ I?"

Clara smouldered like a pot of rage. "Yes, you will." _Cheekbones_ , she wanted to add. She felt taller than him in that tiny moment. Sherlock shrugged and walked away. He deftly lifted his violin to his collarbone and started serenading his brother with 'God Save The Queen' till Mycroft departed.

When John left for work and it was just Clara and Sherlock alone in the flat, the games started. Clara perched herself on Sherlock's leather chair, reading a book while Sherlock lounged on the sofa/Clara's bed with his newspaper. Silence radiated around the living room.

"You're not really reading that," Sherlock finally commented.

"You've already read that newspaper twice," Clara sniffed.

"You haven't turned a page in five minutes."

"You're still stuck in the lifestyle section."

Stillness swept over them like a veil. They turned back to their materials and fidgeted.

"What are you really wishing to say?" Sherlock breathed, sitting up.

Clara raised a delicate eyebrow, flicking a page. "What are _you_ wishing to say?"

"Two words," he allowed.

"Oh entertain me, detective," she said, coating her words in sarcasm. Sherlock sat forward, drilling her with eyes the colour of pearly thunderstorms. Clara snapped her book shut, resting it in her lap. "Irene Adler," She answered for him, tilting her chin.

"Wrong," he jeered, his eye twitching.

"Liar," she replied, nervousness creeping in.

"Clara Oswald," he corrected. " _That_ was what I was wishing to say." Clara looked at her folded ankles, flushing. Eventually, she flicked her dark eyes to him. _Clara Oswald_ , they repeated. _Not Irene Adler_.

Clara felt her eyes turn into chocolate pools as tears pricked her vision. She swallowed, smiling quickly. _I'm sorry_.

 _Human error_ , he told her through his eyes and the planes of his face. Clara inclined her head, confused. _Jealously, envy, rage, lust. Irene Adler is what people create her to be, it's her job. You surround yourself in danger, you cannot help it._

 _Can you?_ Clara's eyebrows drew together beautifully. Sherlock turned away, breaking the spell. "Do you want to talk about….the pool?"

Sherlock turned to face her. "What about it?"

"What I said, well, what I didn't say…" She trailed off, unsure.

Sherlock got up abruptly, "I have to buy some milk," he said quickly. Exchanging his coat for his dressing gown, he stampeded down the stairs as swiftly as he could.

"If I hadn't been there you would be dead!" She managed to rasp out.

Clara's throat closed up, her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. That night, that dreadful, exciting night when she shouted that they could have died and then locked herself in a battle of silent conversation with Sherlock. John had stood there, confused and oblivious. Clara had screamed, shrieked, roared two words at Sherlock. Two words that felt so powerful in that moment. Clara had turned him into a blabbering idiot when she had bellowed through her flaming eyes " _HUMAN ERROR_."

That was it.

Human.

Error.


	29. Bittersweet Christmas

Important: I got my first flame! I am oddly excited about it, too. In a nutshell, they told me to find a new hobby. Which is strange, I mean, if I get the facts right: over 100 reviews and follows. Over 40,000 words. Definitely new hobby material. Anyways, it was the first chapter they reviewed and I can see where they're coming from. I've come a long way from there and improved in my writing along the way. If anything, this review will just make me want to edit and rewrite the rubbish first few chapters.

Thanks to: **Alexandra011** , **yomamasd** and **EMPizza**

 **Mermaid1180** : Haha the Doctor/Sherlock encounter is coming sooon sooooo soon! And thank's for the compliment on the cover image

 **Smauglock** (Guest): Definitely not a night owl and absolutely not American, but trust me, I've always wanted to visit England. I'm *sighs* Australian…

 **SwingingOnAStar** : Thank-you so much! Plus Clara is very territorial over her two different side of her life.

 **CresantShooter123** : Aww thanks!

 **ASerrenn** (Guest): Here, here!

 **Oslock** : Goodness, don't apologise – you're one of my most favoured reviewers! And good luck on your exams – I'm snowed under at the moment, too.

 **Tie-Dyed Broadway** : Agreed and agreed. Clara threw some shade.

* * *

Clara perched herself on Sherlock's chair, trying to stay awake. It had been at least a month of inhabiting 221B and it was getting extremely annoying. When Clara's sleep deprived behaviour exceeded everyone's stress limits, Mrs Hudson had let her borrow a lilo. It was quickly thrown away as it was worse than the couch. So a week after Christmas, Mrs Turner in 221A was moving out, as she was moving in with her 'married ones'. One week. That's all Clara had to suffer. She repeated the words over and over. When John stayed at his girlfriend's house – whoever it was at the time – Clara snuck into his room and had the pleasure of an actual mattress. When Sherlock stayed up late, either experimenting – to every tenants' disdain – or in his mind palace, Clara would steal his bed. It was much too often that she woke up with him passed out beside her in yesterday's clothes. Unfortunately, it had almost become a norm.

Sherlock seemed particularly broody today. They had kept talking to a minimal, even around the awkwardness of waking up together. All they did was snap at each other or be ridiculously polite. Clara had helped Mrs Hudson decorate the flat. Fairy lights framed the windows and a dusty old tree was shoved in the corner, draped in gaudy tinsel. Cards were displayed on the mantelpiece and tiny reindeer statues in between. Snow drifted down outside prettily and the equally captivating flames danced in the fireplace. Clara and John were wearing awful festive jumpers thanks to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock had blatantly refused.

Clara adjusted her yellow paper crown and sipped at her glass of wine. Sherlock was playing 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas' cheerfully, his bow moving swiftly across the strings. Mrs Hudson occupied John's chair with a glass of wine, captivated by Sherlock's music. Her paper crown wobbled precariously. John lounged in the doorway with a bottle of beer in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He had brought his latest girlfriend, _Jane? Jean? Jenna?_ Clara couldn't remember anymore. She was opinionated but polite and Clara only said the bare necessities to her. John walked over to his girlfriend, passing her the cup of tea. He went back into the kitchen to fetch another. Whoever she was, she wore blue - which made Mrs Hudson mutter about how non-Christmassy it was. However, Jane-Jean-Jenna was a school teacher, which was the only solid connection between Clara and her.

Sherlock finished with a beautiful flourish and Mrs Hudson clapped. Lestrade whistled from by the fireplace. "Lovely! Sherlock, that was just lovely!" Mrs Hudson cooed. "Don't you think Clara, dear?"

Clara forced a smile. "Marvellous," she said. Sherlock barely made eye contact with her. Mrs Hudson was informed of the 'trouble in paradise' and took it on as her mission to mend the tether in their relationship. However, her efforts caused much more trouble than they were worth.

Sherlock bowed swiftly and Mrs Hudson giggled. "I wish you had worn the antlers!" She sighed.

"Some things are left to the imagination, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock replied. If it had been _before_ , Clara would have laughed.

As soon as the landlady placed her drink down, Clara snatched it – oblivious to the old lady – and got up to pour the wine down the sink. John came round with another cup and pressed it into Mrs Hudson's hands. "Mrs H," he mumbled, making sure she got a firm hold.

Clara came back, almost running into Sherlock as Jane-Jean-Jenna tip toed over with a plate of finger sandwiches. Clara smiled and took one. "Ah, no thank-you, Sarah," Sherlock said, slightly dismissively as the other woman shoved the platter at him. Jane-Jean-Jenna's face immediately dropped.

Clara slunk closer to Sherlock as John squeezed through. "Uh, no, no, no, no. He's not good with names," John interrupted.

"No, he really isn't," Clara said, making a face. "It's Jenna – isn't it?" She said it so confidently and happily that the embarrassment was even worse when Jane-Jean-not-Jenna sucked on her teeth with anger.

"And neither is she," John added.

"No-no-no, we can get this," Sherlock stuttered, while Clara bit her lip. Jane-Jean-not-Jenna set down the tray and crossed her arms. She glared at the two stormily.

"Sarah was the doctor," Clara started, with an apologetic smile.

"And then the one with the spots…" Sherlock mumbled. Clara coughed, tapping her nose. "Ah, yes, then the one with the nose and then….who was after the boring teacher?"

"Nobody," Jane-Jean-not-Jenna mumbled.

"Jeanette!" Sherlock exclaimed as realisation finally dawned. He feigned a smile. "Process of elimination."

John shepherded Janette away before the duo could cause any more harm. Clara took a massive gulp of wine. "John's going to kill us," she stated.

"Oh, dear Lord," Sherlock said, staring as Molly Hooper arrived.

Clara spluttered on her wine, causing a coughing fit. Molly walked in shyly. Her hair was back brushed and half of it done up with a clip. Sparkling hooped earrings wobbled from her earlobes. She carried two bags, bulging with presents. "Hello everyone, sorry, hello," she greeting, smiling through bright red lips. John walked over to properly say hello. Clara and Sherlock seemed frozen in shock. "Er, it said on the door to just come up."

Everyone else exchanged pleasantries and Clara gave a little wave. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, everyone is saying hullo, how wonderful," he drawled with sarcasm.

Molly was smiling nervously at Sherlock as she took off all her layers. John started to take her coat. "Let me, er…Holy Mary!"

Clara choked on her drink again, coughing and splattering some of it on Sherlock. Molly was wearing a low black dress with a strip of sparkling material across her breasts.

"Having Christmas drinkies, then?" Molly trilled.

Clara and Sherlock were, however, not listening, as another crisis arose between them. "It'll come of in the wash," Clara growled, aggressively dabbing his shirt front with a damp napkin. She slipped three fingers through the gap between the buttons so she could apply more pressure. Sherlock sighed noisily, trying to rub some off his cuffs. "Sorry," she said through gritted teeth.

"Not your fault," he said.

Clara stopped moving. She could feel his warm skin and how it pressed against the back of her fingers as he exhaled. It was the nicest thing he had said to her over the whole month. He should have started insulting her, lecturing her.

Clara shook her head. "Wha-what um….okay." She pulled her hands away, flushing. She folded her hands up, blinking quizzically up at him. "We good?"

Sherlock tilted his head. "Yeah." It was almost a smile.

Clara wanted to hug him but it didn't seem right, in front of everyone. Her mouth quirked, remembering the screen saver on her phone was the hilarious picture Lestrade snapped when Clara had first embraced the detective. "Okay," she smiled.

Sherlock slid into a seat at the table at typed quickly into the search bar of John's laptop. Clara sat opposite him, twisting her wine glass around. "John?" Sherlock called. John came over, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder. "The counter on your blog; it still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five."

John's face crunched up with mock anger. "Ooh on, Christmas is cancelled!"

"And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!"

"People like the hat," Clara laughed.

"No they don't. _What_ people?" John stalked away, chuckling. "Where are the pictures of you?" Sherlock demanded, looking up at Clara.

Clara shrugged in response. She picked at her nails. "No need."

"Well, if they can have a picture of me in that hat, then they can have one of you," Sherlock mumbled. He clicked a few other buttons.

"I am mentioned." Clara leaped up, snooping over his shoulder. She faintly registered that Molly just embarrassed herself again. "No, no, no, no, not that one!" She shut the laptop lid, just missing his fingertips.

Sherlock sniffed. " _Fine_ ," he snapped. Both knew full well Clara was going up on the website anyway. Clara found herself filled with happiness; they hadn't bantered like this in ages.

Clara rose up, waltzing over to Lestrade and bumping his shoulder playfully. "I thought you were staying in Dorset for Christmas?"

"That's first thing in the morning. Me and the wife – we're back together." He grinned. "It's all sorted.

Sherlock's eyes didn't even waver from the laptop screen. "No, she's sleeping with the P.E teacher." Lestrade's smile became a fixed grimace.

From perched on the sofa, Molly said, "And John. Clara says you're off to your sister's?"

"Yeah," John huffed.

"Sherlock was complaining." Sherlock raised an eyebrow delicately. "…saying." Besides Clara, Lestrade sculled the rest of his drink.

"First time ever, she's cleaned up her act," John continued proudly. "She's off the booze."

"Nope," Sherlock replied, popping the 'p'.

"Shut up, Sherlock," John snapped.

"I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him," Sherlock breathed.

"Sorry what," Molly stuttered, clutching her glass.

"Take a day off," John quickly muttered.

Lestrade thumped a glass down on the desk. "Shut up and have a drink," he warned.

"Oh come on," Sherlock continued relentlessly. "Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag – perfectly wrapped up with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best." He stood up, walking closer to Molly. Clara reached out, tugging on the hem of his suit. He merely swatted her hand away like it was an annoying gnat. "It's for someone special then." He picked up the present out the bag, turning it round in his hands. "The shade of red echoes her lipstick – either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has _love_ on her mind," he drawled out the word deliberately.

"Sherlock," Clara warned, seeing Molly start to squirm. "That's enough."

"The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all. That would suggest long term hopes – however forlorn; and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing." Sherlock looked smugly around, like this was some test. "Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts…" He trailed off, reading the tag. Sherlock froze in shock, realising the terrible thing he had done.

Clara stalked over. She snatched the gift from his grasp just as Molly said, "You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. _Always_." She seemed to be fighting back tears. Clara swiftly tucked the present back into Molly's bag. Sherlock turned away, Clara moved back though she hated herself for it.

Sherlock turned back. "I am sorry, forgive me," he told Molly softly. Clara gaped. Such a human reaction. "Merry Christmas, Molly Hopper," he whispered, kissing her lightly on the cheek. The sweet moment was ruined by a sudden orgasmic sigh that filled the room.

"No! That wasn't…I – I didn't," Molly stuttered, shaking her head. Her hopped earrings rattled.

"No, it was me," Sherlock said.

"My god, really?" Lestrade exclaimed. His eyebrows arched dangerously.

"What?!" Molly blubbered.

"My _phone_ ," Sherlock snapped, reaching into his jacket.

John narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. "Fifty-seven," he muttered.

"What?" Clara asked.

"Fifty-seven of those texts, the ones I've heard," he explained.

Sherlock strolled to the mantelpiece, no longer the complete centre of attention – Mrs Hudson was gushing about a dog she saw yesterday. "Thrilling you've been counting," he replied nonchalantly. He pocketed a small red box that rested on the mantle. "S'cuse me," he whispered, walking to the kitchen.

"Sher – Sherlock," Clara followed his footsteps worriedly. "What's up, Cheekbones?" She smiled quickly, airily.

"I said excuse me," he snapped and disappeared into his bedroom.

"D'you ever reply?" John called. The door clicked shut.

Clara rested her head on the wooden panels. This Christmas was already over in her books, even if it was her first at Baker Street. She was sick of sleeping on the couch Jeanette was currently occupying and she doubted Sherlock would let her in while he sulked. Mrs Hudson's flat smelled like cabbage – even Oscar, the gargantuan cat meowed impatiently about the room. One more week, Clara reminded herself. Just one more week.

Clara tiptoed back into the living room, hearing John start bickering with his girlfriend. "You're a great boyfriend," Jeanette simpered from the sofa.

"Okay, that's good," John said, looking startled. "I mean – I always _thought_ I was great."

"And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man," Jeanette told him. She jumped up, continuing to rant as she shoved her feet into her ballet flats.

John started grumbling, spitting out excuses. "He's Clara's fiancé," he finally cried as Jeanette stormed out.

Clara tilted her head angrily. Her chin jutted out as she grinded her teeth. John threw his arms in the air. " _Merry Christmas_ ," he shouted bitterly.


	30. Just Breathe

So this will be the last update until my exams are all done and dusted. So don't worry if I don't update for a while - I'm still alive!

We are soooo close to the new seasons of Sherlock and Doctor Who. Isn't this exciting? Has anyone seen Class yet? It's the new Doctor Who spinoff set at Coal Hill Academy - where Clara worked. I'm still a bit conflicted about it but I think the characters are slowly winning me over.

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Thanks to: **MuddySlytherin** , **ilyrana** , **SaiyaPheng** and **Massacre13**

 **Smauglock** (Guest): Haha thank you. Your reviews are so bubbly and detailed. It really makes me smile.

 **Mermaid1108** : Thank-you and welcome!

 **CresantShooter123** : Haha if only we could all time travel.

 **LadyRedStar** (Guest): Ah yes, the Clara and Sherlock 'funk'. They're incredibly good at annoying each other.

 **Oslock** : Haha. Molly always seems to be the butt of the joke

 **ProudlyOslocked** (Guest): Hahahah – yes! Perfect surmise! Yes, Clara makes this story hum, Ooh and good idea! Sherlock and home improvements?! Hilarity is ensured.

 **ASerren** (Guest): Yikes, don't be too mean to the 'flame' – I'm sure they, err, meant well...deep down.

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Clara had thought that, being Christmas and all, things would have ended better. Sure, Jeanette or whoever, left John in an angry stammer and Mrs Hudson was speaking her mind under the influence of too much sherry – but that was normal – until Sherlock left.

He had stalked out the door, the clock edging on midnight, and swished out and into the dark street. He had been a sweep of darkness, his face void of emotion. You may think that he looks like this most of the time, but Clara knew he didn't. When he was around John, his eyes would flicker with his never-ending thoughts or he would spit a mischievous comment. With Clara, a smile would tug at his lips, demanding to be given in to or his eyes would twinkle. That night, Sherlock was pure darkness. It was as if he had been unplugged from the world and moved like a robot.

"Where are you going?" Clara had called from the kitchen sink.

"Out," he said, in a deathly monotone.

Clara remembered tip toeing into the living room but he was already thundering down the stairs.

"Sherlock?" John had yelled but then the front door slammed shut.

A call on Clara's mobile from Mycroft sent them scurrying around the flat. Irene Adler was dead. Clara could imagine her body in the morgue. She could see the unearthly porcelain skin gleaming in the fluorescent lights. Her hair would be raven black on the slab. Guilt churned through Clara like cold porridge. She swallowed, ruffling through Sherlock's sock drawer. She had despised that woman, and now she was dead as could be. And Sherlock, oh – _Sherlock_. A trench-like rift carved between them over Irene – both admiring her, both equally as jealous. Clara had dallied with a few girls and boys, it wasn't strange for her to feel attracted to Miss Adler. Her guts twisted in disgust, how were so nasty to each other over one woman!

Christmas Eve felt like a dream, even though it was only a few hours ago. Clara reminded herself about how all was forgiven. Soufflé Girl and Cheekbones were back. Still, guiltiness wrapped around her throat like a python.

Clara moved to Sherlock's cupboard. A phantom breeze sent the empty hangers clinking. Surprisingly, it wasn't just filled with suits and silk dressing gowns. Disguises as bright and colourful as the tinsel wrapped around the Christmas tree were all bundled together. Clara poked at a police officer's coat and trailed a finger down a woolen cardigan. To see Sherlock in _that!_

John bumbled into the room. Clara slammed the double doors of the cupboard. "All clean?" he asked.

"Yeah," Clara replied. She spun on her heel, biting her thumb.

"He'll be fine," John reassured her, patting her arm awkwardly.

"He's _Sherlock_ ," she sighed. John attempted a smile and wandered out. "When is he ever _fine_ ," Clara asked herself.

She didn't want to wait for Sherlock. John sat slumped in his chair. His fingers twitched on the arms rest as he watched the door out of the corner of his eye. Clara slipped into her plaid pyjamas and slipped underneath the sheets. Sure, it was Sherlock's bedroom but they were used to sharing.

They never actually climbed into bed together, nor woke up with other still there; but for a few hours (sometimes – Sherlock was quite a nocturnal creature) in the night, they breathed in rhythm peacefully.

It struck her dumb when the door squealed open and Sherlock started muttering about his sock drawer. Clara pretended to be asleep. She curled up on the very edge of the bed and shut her eyes firmly.

Clara heard his coat crumple to the floor. The wooden boards creaked underneath his weight as he shifted across the room.

.

Sherlock threw off his coat. It folded in on itself as it hit the floor like forgotten wings. He braced his arms on the windowsill, his breaths pulling in and out sharply from his nose. Irene Adler was dead. He had made Molly timidly draw the sheet off of Miss Adler's face and then further, just so he could be sure. 32-24-34. The code to her safe; her measurements. Then as he had stalked into the flat, John stared at him as one might stare at a homeless man. Pure disgusting pity. Sherlock turned around, sliding down the wall till he hit the floor.

Then the mattress's springs squeaked. Tpit-patpat of bare feet tip toed over the room. Of course Clara had been awake. As soon as Sherlock entered the room he had known. She had held her breath in her bluff. He hadn't had the energy to call her out.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"I know," he rumbled. A beat. "Go back to sleep."

"No," she immediately answered. So stubborn. She was holding something. It was too dark to see it properly. Clara knelt down beside him. "Merry Christmas," she shrugged.

Sherlock reached for it. A scarf. A dark blue, perfectly folded. He sniffed the fabric. "Clara Oswald did you buy me an identical scarf?" he pondered softly. A smile shadowed over his lips.

"Problem?"

"It smells different."

"Boo-hoo."

Silence clouded between them. Guilt rippled off of Clara in waves, something close to sadness was seeping out of Sherlock. Clara wedged herself underneath his arm, resting her head on his chest. Kind of the way Oscar – the annoying gargantuan cat of hers – slides underneath everyone's hands hoping for a pat, no matter what position they are in. Sherlock froze, not sure what to do. Clara blindly grabbed his lost arm and wrapped it in her tiny hand. "Just breathe," she murmured. So he did.


	31. Alien Encounter

Sorry for the short chapter last time, I promise that after this one most of the chapters are much more juicer. I've been pushing myself to stuff more in them. Thank you for all the lovely comments these past weeks, it's really helped me, especially with the exams. AND THIS IS THE CHAPTER YOU HAVE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR. SIT DOWN AND ENJOY THE RIDE.

Thanks to: **aadripond** , **Moony.R.** , **Lady Deebo** , **RebeccaFoxx** , **TheLadyKnightofEdoras** and **PotterKitten**.

 **CresantShooter123** : So so so sweet of you, thank you!

 **ProudlyOslocked** (guest): Hahaha another fangirl, yay! Oh and funny story, I once had a teacher who was a total whovian. On my last assignment for that class I jut stuffed in as many doctor who references as possible :)

 **Mermaid1108** : Thanks!

 **Smauglock** (guest): oh my gosh that was the cutest review ever! Oh and who wouldn't give anything to inhale Sherlock's aftershave he he. Thank you for the kind wishes. Ha your second review (just read it) is even better, ha! I hope your family doesn't annoy you too much, I don't want you feeling claustrophobic! And I love Charlie, the prince, too! He is legit my favourite. I just need to protect him at all costs, along with his boyfriend.

 **DreamsAreMagical** : Well, well, well, it must be you're lucky day!

Guest: I know! There are hardly any oslock fics, it's an endangered species.

 **ASerrenn** (guest): I know, it's hard to keep a straight face while writing cause of all the adorable-ness around.

 **Oslock** : Aghhh HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Not sure if it's happened or not but I hope you have/had/having an amazing day.

 **Tie-DyedBroadway** (guest): my crazy reviewer, thank goodness! Dang it Netflix!

 **Aubrey Cortez** : Now listen here, you are not a horrible person! You are a fantastic person, okay?

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Clara lolled in an armchair, stroking Oscar idly. His spine hummed with delight as she dragged a few fingers across his back. Sherlock was framed in the window, his blue dressing gown shifting with each mournful stroke of his violin bow. He occasionally paused to pencil in a notation on his sheet music. Mrs Hudson came in breezily, complementing Sherlock before drifting out again. Sherlock didn't even reply.

John drifted in and out worriedly. He pretended to look in the fridge and opened the cutlery draw a few times. "You composing?" he finally uttered.

"Helps me to think," Sherlock said shortly.

"What are you thinking about?" John prodded, stepping into the living room.

Sherlock suddenly spun around, his dressing gown wafting in the motion like a ship's sail. Sherlock pointed at John's laptop. "The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five," he rapidly fired.

"Yeah, it's faulty. Can't seem to fix it. Internet these days," he said and laughed. Except he started chuckling instantly after he said it making it awkward and forced.

"Faulty – or you've been hacked and it's a message." He flicked out Irene's phone, typing the number in. "The internet traps humans like flies; screaming for attention."

"Isn't that basically twitter?" Clara quipped.

"Just faulty," Sherlock muttered, his face shedding of emotion again. He slipped the phone back into his pocket. He picked up the violin again, stretching out the sad tune.

"Right. Well I'm going out for a bit." John picked up his coat, slinging it over his back. Sherlock didn't respond.

Clara turned in her seat. No! She mouthed, looking at him desperately. John pointed at her sharply and then at Sherlock. I am not able to help those who can't be helped! She started gesturing extravagantly. After a battle of silence, John stalked out, leaving Clara defeated.

Clara sucked on the inside of her cheek. She wasn't sure what to do. Oscar bounced off her lap, skipping down the stairs to go and annoy Mrs Hudson. Clara smoothed her dress and went over to the glittering Christmas tree. She picked up a forgotten parcel. She trotted over to Sherlock. He didn't cease his music. "This is a small gift, celebrating our truce," she interrupted.

"I don't do presents," Sherlock muttered, putting his bow down. Clara raised an eyebrow. He snatched the yellow tissue paper clad package anyway. He ripped open a section and unsheathed the present. "A coat…" He sniffed it, felt it and frowned at it. "Exactly the same?"

"Identical to your favourite," Clara said smugly.

Sherlock stared at her. "Smart." It was identical to the one hanging on the hook near the door, right down to the red stitched button hole. Except…he fingered the inside pocket. From Soufflé Girl was stitched into the silken fabric.

"I know," she replied archly. "Now Cheekbones, let's go out for a bit…the park or-"

"Wait!" Sherlock exclaimed. He slapped a hand to his forehead. "I missed something – I saw it and I missed it." His hands drew together in thought. He raced over to the papers pinned to the wall. His fingers fluttered over them. "When we first spoke – OH! Oh, Clara." He sprinted to her, panting. "When we first met you didn't comprehend Skype," he said. "You called John once because you didn't know what Wi-Fi was."

"Er, thanks," Clara muttered reproachfully.

"Clara you just made a joke about twitter."

Clara felt realisation settle deep in her gut. "Sherlock, I don't understand. I know about twitter and computers."

"Clara when we first met the camera on your laptop wasn't working. Why didn't you fix it."

Clara took a step back, her tiny heeled boots clicked on the floorboards. "I don't know." Sherlock dashed back over to his mind map of papers he ripped one or two or three off, stuffing them into his dressing gown pockets. "Sherlock, you're scaring me."

"Just tell me then!" He uttered, stopping still. "Tell me who you are, who you really are," he cried, pulling at his hair.

"Stop it," Clara said. Her voice hitched. "I don't get it, I'm just Clara."

"You can't be!" His face turned into a rollercoaster of emotion, like he let down the flood gates of something terrible he had stored for a long, long time. "You are impossible!"

Suddenly, a wheezing, groaning noise filled the room. "No, no, no, no, no," Clara growled. "Not now."

Pages swirled around them, the curtains wafted to the side. Clara's hair was caught in a whirlwind of space itself. The mantelpiece disappeared, followed by the armchairs and the floor itself. The familiar floor of the TARDIS was underneath her feet and she was very, very scared. Because Sherlock was standing next to the consul, white with terror.

Clara sprinted over to him, grabbing his hands in her own. "Clara, Clara," he said breathlessly.

"I know, Sherlock – I can explain," she whispered, keeping hold of his unbelieving stare. "Just focus on me, just on me…"

"Clara!" Another voice shouted in excitement.

"Not now, Doctor," she seethed.

Sherlock whipped around. His eyes caught on the blinking lights of the consul, they dragged across the glowing green orb in the middle but finally they latched onto the skinny man looking gloomily at Clara. "You," Sherlock breathed.

"You!" the Doctor exclaimed.

They didn't have time to focus on each other. The lights flashed out, blackness flooded the room. Red pulsating lights followed menacingly. The Doctor raced to the consul, pulling the hand held screen towards him. "Doctor?" Clara questioned.

He bent over the consul, flicking a few switches. "All electrical impulses are jammed. I can't get the shields back up." He pushed a lever with a grunt. "She's completely vulnerable." The lever shifted, making sparks fly.

The TARDIS lurched to the side. Clara, Sherlock and the Doctor were thrown off their feet. Clara landed next to Sherlock, still holding on to his hands. "Clara, I don't understand," he whispered.

"Just don't die on me," she replied and scrambled up, pulling him with her.

"Magnetic hobble-field, We're flying right into it. Clara, stay by me!" The Doctor gripped the consul. Clara held onto the side, making sure Sherlock had a firm hand hold.

"Don't die," Clara repeated.

Sherlock was swallowed up by her brown eyes. "Don't die," he replied. His focus was back. Clara grinned. Sherlock finally started breathing normally.

"Doctor!" Clara yelled, still looking at Sherlock. "Please tell me there's a button you can press to fix this."

"Oh, yes. Big friendly button," he snapped.

"You're lying."

"Yep."

"To stop freaking me out?"

"Is it working?"

Clara saw a silver orb roll across the floor. She picked it up. It singed her palm. Gasping, she dropped it instantly. Another explosion shook the shell of the TARDIS. They were thrown across the room again, Clara didn't feel her body hit the ground.


	32. Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS

Hello friends! I feel so mean, you wonderful people were freaking the hell out. It was kinda funny *your author gives a nonchalant shrug and flicks her hair*. And if I don't update before Christmas - Merry Christmas. If you don't celebrate that sort of thing I understand completely and hope you have a great time anyway. Ughhh the Sherlock season 4 trailers are so confusing and terrifying. I'm pretty sure I stopped breathing when watching it. Oh and quick question - would you humans like to follow me on snapchat? More of an upbeat, up to date, snappy-snappy way of communicating and living a day in the life of me! Dunno. Your choice. Write in your reviews about it - thanks! Oh and has anyone else seen the new Fantastic Beats movie? WORDS FAIL ME - it was so dang good.

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200 REVIEWS - THANK YOU!

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Thanks to: **DreamsAreMagical** , **There'sNoGoodUsernamesLeft** , **Kukay** , **Sesshomarus-demoness20** and **Flamand Vert**.

 **Lady Deebo** : I doubt I can harm you with 'THE FEELS' but I can certainly try!

 **Aubrey Cortez** : Haha I am sooo glad you liked it!

 **Mermaid1108** : Sadly and apple a day does not keep the Doctor away.

 **CresantShooter123** : Oh thank you! It was so much fun adding Sherlock to this episode. It really spices it up.

 **Alessandra12** : Spain?! That's so cool! And I can't believe you know more than one language - don't you dare apologise, this is amazing! I am so happy you like this story, I'm doing my best.

 **SwingingOnAStar** : Yes! The Doctor is here and now has a detective to contend with.

 **Oslock** : Doctor Strange was so bloody amazing I went to see it twice. My friend and I were just elbowing each other the whole time cause we were both thinking Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock! It was soooo good.

 **Smauglock** (guest): I'm glad I saved you from the ghastly, possible life threatening, cheesiness of that Zac Efron film! And being moral support for people undergoing exams is probably the nicest thing you could do - seriously, exams requires hugs, food and coffee. Haha, this review was great, never ever too long for me to read!

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Sherlock awoke, his head throbbed painfully. At first he thought his vision was damaged but red pulsing lights were blaring across the room. His back was pressed uncomfortably against the bottom of the consul. Sherlock rose onto his aching feet realising that wherever he was, was upright a second ago. The floor was a wall, the double doors were the ceiling. Sherlock stood on the slanted stand of the consul, which now worked as a floor. His blue silk dressing gown was shredded.

Just as Sherlock was contemplating the leap to one of the railings, the ship lurched. Sherlock was flung forward and his body bashed into the doors, flinging them open. He tumbled into a mess of wires, some sort of smoke from the ship pooled around him. Coughing, he slowly scrambled up again. "So you're still alive, eh?" Someone said.

"Where's Clara?" Sherlock demanded, his voice wheezing. The Doctor swallowed and absentmindedly straightened his bowtie. Sherlock's eyes flicked over him. Sure, he may be rattled, standing outside a blue phone box – that they had been in, which was bigger on the inside, which was impossible – but he needed to find Clara. He just needed to see her smile at him again. "You don't know, do you?" Sherlock deduced, dragging in a sharp, worried breath. Not like it was a hard deduction; the man oozed anxiety. Sherlock ran forward, his joints groaning in protest. He was an inch away from grabbing those stupid suspenders before two sets of hands wrenched him back. Sherlock snarled in protest.

"We'll get her back," The Doctor said. His brown eyes didn't waver. The phone box was dropped on its side again, making The Doctor sneer at the third man controlling the winch. He stroked the side of it like it was some sort of scared animal.

Sherlock shook off the brutes. There were two of them – dark skinned with angry glinting eyes and strange contraptions hanging of their dusty uniforms. One of them handed him a mask. Sherlock turned it over in his hands. Some sort of respirator – nothing he had ever seen before. The questions were drilling into "Where are we?" He hissed, turning to The Doctor.

"Don't worry about that," he replied and kicked the doors to the ship open. Smoke billowed out and they snapped the respirators on. The Doctor went in first, and then hollered for the rest of them to follow through. The three men shouldered past Sherlock. Seething, the detective went last.

He nearly fainted.

Where he had been subjected to the tilts and gravity of the ship before, it was perfectly level, despite obviously being on its side from the outside. "Wh-aat…" he stuttered.

"The TARDIS is special," The Doctor said, slapping the consul. "She has her own gravity."

"Tell me," Sherlock demanded. The mask made his voice a strange warble.

"Well I don't exactly have a white board and a pen, do I?" he snapped. The Doctor flicked a switch and the smoke was sucked into the invisible vents, littered somewhere on the ceiling. Sherlock dragged his respirator off.

"How big is this baby?" One of the crew asked, completely awed. He was bald and roughly shaven with

"Picture the biggest ship you've ever seen. Are you picturing it?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Now forget it. This ship is infinite."

Sherlock gaped. "Can't be," he told the Doctor. "It's impossible."

The Doctor looked at the piece of paper poking out of Sherlock's dressing gown pocket. A smile twitched on his face. "You tell me, wonder boy." Sherlock's heart missed a beat.

"It'll take you hours to find the girl," One of the men said, the second one who had grabbed Sherlock before. He was the tallest and jutted his chin out with a calculating, almost chilling stare.

"Days!" The Doctor exclaimed. "Plus the whole place is toxic. She could be dead by the time I reach her." Sherlock thought his lungs just collapsed. "So. We're going to do it in one hour."

"We?" The cold eyed man asked.

"You're my guys for this."

"That wasn't the deal."

"Tis' now," The Doctor replied. He waltzed around the consul. Sherlock watched him, hating him. Clara could be dead. Sherlock knew it was stupid, but…he would know if she were. He didn't know how, maybe it was just a feeling – but he was quite sure she was still alive. Clara couldn't just die on him. "Don't die," she had said. Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. Okay Soufflé Girl, I don't die and you come back. Deal.

"What makes you think we'll help."

The Doctor flicked two levers and a blaring countdown buzzed on the screen. "I just activated the TARDIS self-destruct system. One hour until this ship blows." Sherlock's gut dropped to the floor. One of the crew sprinted to the doors but they slammed shut. "Don't try to leave. The TARDIS is in lockdown. I'll open those doors when Clara's by my side." Sherlock glowered at The Doctor. By my side.

"You crazy lunatic!" The tree trunk of a man exclaimed. Bram, that's what his name was. Sherlock could see it stitch roughly on the lapel of his jacket.

The Doctor turned, scowling. "My ship, my rules."

"You'll kill us all, and the girl!" Said the man who had run to the door. Gregor was embroidered on his jacket.

"She's going to die if you don't help me. Don't get into a spaceship with a madman." The crew ran to the doors again. "Didn't anyone ever teach you that?"

Sherlock whipped around. Clara, Clara, Clara. "I didn't have a choice in the matter," he spat.

The Doctor shrugged. "You're just as mad as I am."

Sherlock's nose crinkled. "Hardly. I don't know where I am, who you are. I've never seen this sort of technology in my life."

"Yet you hang around with the most dangerous girl in the universe." Sherlock stilled. "See, if you listen, wonder boy, you might get some answers."

The Doctor clapped his hands, sighing at the three men pushing desperately on the double doors. "Okay, a little gentle persuasion. Say 30 minutes." The clock drained of time till it hit the half an hour mark.

"Are you insane?!" Sherlock roared. His heart was beating out a frightened tattoo.

"She'll die even quicker now!" Bram exclaimed.

The Doctor's finger hovered over a button. "We all perform better under pressure. Anybody want to go for 15?"

Bram and Gregor held up their hands in abnegation. Sherlock wanted to pummel The Doctor to a pulp. A nagging, annoying voice in his head told him sinisterly how smart this was. People do perform better under pressure – Sherlock knew he did, and John too.

"It's your own time you're wasting. Salvage of a lifetime." The Doctor's eyes gleamed. "You mean the ship. I meant Clara."

.

The Doctor led the way through an impossible maze of corridors. "Wait!" Sherlock muttered and snatched the device he held aloft.

"Hey?!"

"Clara had this! She had this the night of the pool…" He turned it over with nimble fingers. Chrome metal, a glowing green orb, weird silver entrapments at the end. It whirred strangely in his palm. The Doctor grabbed it back. "Yes, she stole it," he sniffed.

"What is it?"

"A screwdriver."

"No it isn't."

"Ah, a sonic screwdriver."

Sherlock was about to say "No such thing," but then he remembered he was in an infinitely large space ship that looked like a phone box. He slid his hands into the dressing gown pockets, slightly muffed that the hem was singed and one side sliced to tatters. His fingers brushed the paper he had crunched into his pockets a minute before he was kidnapped onto the ship. He pulled it out, straightening it. It was a picture of a woman. Her hair was piled delicately on the top of her head and she wore a high necked Victorian dress. Clara Oswald stared out of the image with the same glittering dark eyes and slight smirk like she always knew something you didn't. "Doctor," Sherlock rumbled. The Doctor turned around, his floppy brown fringe waving. He handed him the image.

Sherlock had found it by chance one day. He had been in the city library and a book caught his eye. It was meant to be a biography but it was closer to a tale of fiction. Snowmen would appear at random in the streets. The narrator, a widowed man with two children told of how the Governess died when falling off a 'cloud'. Whatever that meant. But when Sherlock flicked to the back, Clara stared back at him. It was not possible – she was an impossible girl.

"Ah…" The Doctor said softly. A crinkle appeared on his brow. "You tried to confront her, didn't you."

"The Clara I met on Skype is very different to the Clara I know now." He was exaggerating because the blaster twitter joke was branded into his mind. She wasn't that different. Though when he thought on it, she was somehow braver. When they had faced the Gollum, Clara was terrified sitting in that cab. Then when they were at the pool, staring down Moriarty and bullets to the head, Clara had been ready to die for them. For him. "She now knows everything there is about computers. A few months ago she didn't even know what Wi-Fi was." Sherlock took the picture back protectively. "You did this to her didn't you?"

"Not directly," The Doctor snapped.

"Liar," Sherlock scoffed. "How can she be alive in 18-whatever and now in the 21st century." Sherlock wanted to rip his hair out by the roots. "Who are you?"

"How long?"

"What?"

"How long have you had that picture?"

"Since I first met her."

The Doctor turned around and continued down the cramped corridors, sonic screwdriver aloft. "It's complicated," was all he said.

"I'm used to complicated," Sherlock barked.

"What? Solving silly crimes?" Sherlock's mouth opened. "Clara tells me all about your little adventures," The Doctor continued. He looked Sherlock up and down, his lip curling slightly. "I thought you'd be more impressive."

"Judging from the way you fix that ridiculous bow-tie – seriously, they're so out of fashion – you can't get enough of Clara." Sherlock stepped closer, nose in the air. "One might say you have a bit of a soft spot," he added in a clipped tone.

The Doctor's mouth opened so wide he could probably catch flies. "What-I…How…Wha-What are you insinuating?" The Doctor demanded. Sherlock arched an eyebrow. The Doctor dithered, all the words spilling out of his mouth turned to babble.

"You're blushing," Sherlock drawled idly.

"I am most certainly not!" The Doctor exclaimed, though touched his cheeks. His ears were turning bright pink at the tips. The Doctor faced Sherlock. They were a match in height. "I have a wife!" The Doctor retorted. Just before Sherlock was about to drop some other deduction, The Doctor's ears pricked as he heard something. He swished around and raced off, his gangly limbs flying everywhere.


	33. Space Shenanigans

Hey. I cannot control myself but _everyone_...the new Sherlock episode, _ahhhhh_. The Six Thatchers is amazing, confusing, hilarious and such a crazy enigma. Sherlock is an insufferable prick, Mary is just kkwddndendijneejidnmdowsmx and John, of course, is just being John. You will all love it, promise. Please tell me your theories!

* * *

Thanks to: Erzi, evoloX, Wicken2, SylverFrost, VanillaBomb22

Lady Deebo: Ha, sassy Sherlock.

CresantShooter123: Ah there will always be cute Oslock moments, cross my heart and whatever.

ProudlyOslocked: Ha what a thrilling review. John and me...writing a blog...? How amazing! Hehe if only. Oh goodness soap operas for an eternity. Sherlock would guess what's happening based on silly deductions. He'd talk over the whole thing just for the sake of real entertainment. The Doctor would hate it but get attached despite his best efforts. But denying all emotional ties with the characters.

Oslock: Well, well, well - you'll just have to read on! Ahh yes...the flicking of the coat collar.

Aubrey Cortez: Well this chapter is a bit lengthier, a lot more banter and terrible amounts of running :)

Alessandra. 12: *blushes* haha every complement I get is just sooooooo amazing. Thank you! Wow I would give anything to have your talent, it must be so fun!

Smauglock (guest): HAHA oh my goodness it must say something since I know exactly who you are talking about. And I have seen it - I was nearly in tears.

* * *

The blasted TARDIS was out to get her. Clara had been to the main consul what felt like a billion times. Firstly, the doors were gone. No blue double doors with small silver handles. Instead there was an immovable slab of concrete blocking the exit. Clara banged on it with her small fists. She even kicked it with her boot. Secondly, whenever she left the room, no matter which way she went through the corridors or ducked through a mess of sliding doors, she always ended up at the main consul. Clara swore the gleeful green light in the centre glass tube was laughing at her.

Her hand stung with the burn the silver orb had given her. She had to blow on it regularly. Even though her anger for the TARDIS burbled in her stomach, a wash of fear wavered over her. There was something in the TARDIS. She had heard books drop to the floor in the great library. Clara didn't know what it was, but she was certain it wasn't very nice. Possibly wanting to eat her. Or worse. And The Doctor was nowhere to be seen.

Nor Sherlock.

Clara hoped he wasn't dead. She couldn't believe The Doctor had to come at _that_ moment. Her life was full of insufferable aliens and melodramatic detectives. Clara kicked the consul. Why did those lives have to mix? Plus, if Sherlock and The Doctor were alive…she wasn't there to keep the peace. Goodness, the would be fighting like animals! What would Sherlock think of The Doctor? Clara knew The Doctor was kind and brave and loyal. She doubted that Sherlock would look past The Doctor's crankiness to see _that_. Clara knew The Doctor would be too jealous to see past Sherlock's showy-offness. _Ugh, so technical_.

Something clanged in a corridor. Clara whipped around but didn't see anything. Was it the monster? Clara plucked up the courage and headed towards the stairs, tentatively taking a step. A door whirred open. Clara screamed. The creature was ghastly, some sort of mottled, preserved flesh covered it, and it's head…Clara had no words to describe it. A heavy orb, twitching, tilting to and fro. Clara raced up back to the consul, keeping it on the other side.

It took a step to the left, so Clara took one to the left. Clara shuffled to the right and so did it. She cocked her head, her sweaty palms gripping the consul. The monster mirrored her movements. "Who are you?" Clara choked out. The creature charged.

Clara yelped and found herself with her back pressing into the slab of concrete where the blasted doors were meant to be. Steam rose from the monster's hand as it crept menacingly towards her. Clara couldn't help it – she started screaming bloody murder.

Suddenly, a hand gripped her shoulder and pulled her free, Clara shrieked and pulled away. She spun around, puffing. "It's all right. Clara, I'm so, so sorry. Please, please forgive me…" It was The Doctor. Clara looked him up and down. Yes – suspenders, bowtie, bad hair; definitely The Doctor. Clara punched him in the shoulder with an indignant grumble.

"Ow!" He yelped and rubbed the sore spot. "Okay, so we're not doing hugging, I get that now. Oh but you hug _wonder boy_ …" The Doctor finished with a growl.

Clara did, briefly. Sherlock, blimey, hugged her back. "You all right?" She mumbled. He looked terrible – his blue dressing gown was in tatters! Mrs Hudson would be mortified.

"Only if you hit him again," Sherlock breathed. Clara winked.

She whirled back to The Doctor. "What do you keep in here?! Why have you got zombie creatures? Good guys do not have zombie creatures. Rule one." She smacked him on the other shoulder. "Basic storytelling."

"Not in front of the guests!" The Doctor snapped.

Clara gave the two strange men a small wave. They were in dilapidated greenish grey uniforms and bulbous backpacks. And they didn't wave back. "Who are they?"

"Friends. Well, people who aren't trying to kill us, so I don't need punching again!"

Clara gave him a glare and went to lean on the rail next to Sherlock. "I'm so sorry," She told him.

"What's a time lord?" Sherlock asked.

"An idiot in a bowtie."

Sherlock turned round so his back was to The Doctor; who was busy arguing with the two strangers. "Why…what are you to him?"

Clara sighed. "His companion; NOT like _that_ though!"

Sherlock sniffed reproachfully. "So what do you even do with him? Gallivanting around in a spaceship?"

Clara frowned thoughtfully. "Um…Aliens, monsters…a lot of running. There's always running."

"Aliens. Right." Sherlock seemed to be trying to wrap his head around the fact.

Clara gripped is arm. "Please don't freak out." She was scared his eyes would suddenly roll back in his head or he'd go into shock. Maybe even vomit.

"Nope, not freaking out – just…" His eyes blinked back into focus. "We're not dead yet, are we?"

"Don't get your hopes up, Cheekbones," Clara quipped.

She turned back to The Doctor who seemed to be explaining that no – the TARDIS was not about to blow up, the countdown was false. But… "It appears the engine is damaged. We're in trouble, Clara. Proper trouble. It needs fixing or we're toast," The Doctor said before sprinting to the lower level of the consul room. The screen flashing ENGINE OVERLOAD sort of set their heart rates climbing. Clara raced after him, Sherlock in tow.

"So now would be a good time to use that big friendly button, right?" Clara squeaked.

"Yeah, sorry, should have had one built in." The Doctor sonic-ed one of the hexagonal panels.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock demanded.

The panel fell inwards with a wheeze. "Detour." The Doctor kneeled down in front of the black hole. "The centre of the TARDIS."

.

Sherlock thought it was _brilliant_ when Clara punched The Doctor. Twice. It had felt so good when she hugged him, they both smelt like burnt plastic and covered in cinders, so he hugged her back. Thank God, John wasn't there to comment.

Most of the things Sherlock had seen were impossible - a mechanical tree with bright orbs that held 'everything' and when The Doctor had somehow reached into an echo of the consul room and wrenched Clara from the monster. Lord. There were monsters.

Now they were in a dimly lit corridor and had lost Clara. Again. There was one of the said monsters, Sherlock didn't even get a glimpse, and then they were running. Clara was right, there was a lot of running. And Clara wasn't behind him anymore.

Sherlock's mind was ready to explode when The Doctor led them through another squat corridor and there was Clara – thank goodness – but there was another Clara, and another Doctor. Sherlock's brain screamed ' _not possible!_ '.

"Clara stop," The Doctor warned, pointing at his doppelganger. "Don't touch it. There's a rupture in time somewhere onboard this ship. A small tear in the fabric of the continuum. It must have happened when the TARDIS was pulled in by the salvage vessel. The TARDIS is leaking."

Sherlock reached forward and tugged at Clara's hand. She stepped back, trembling. "Leaking what," Clara asked.

"The past. You and me. Everything we've done, everything we've said. Recent history. It's not real, it's a memory."

Sherlock turned from them and he felt his insides drop to the floor. "What about this," he whispered.

Clara and The Doctor turned, slowly, fearfully. "If you're giving me the option, I'd say," The Doctor swallowed, "This one's real."

Sherlock pushed Clara ahead and they sprinted down the corridor. Sherlock had to duck multiple times – it was easy for Clara, she didn't have to watch out for lights and arches.

"She's right onto us!" The Doctor panted.

"She?!" Clara exclaimed but they were too busy running away from a faceless monster to ponder it. The three – who knows where the other crew have gone – pressed themselves into a tiny cavity in the wall. A past copy of The Doctor and Clara wandered past, chatting idly about something. The creature followed them instead of the present copies. Sherlock finally was able to breath.

A creaking, whining groan resonated in the ceiling. "What's that noise?" Clara questioned, peering up.

"We're right under the primary fuel cells," The Doctor answered. He ruffled his hair.

"So? So? So what?" Clara babbled.

"So…so the fuel has spilled out. So the rods will be exposed. Means they'll cool…"

Sherlock's brain kicked in. "And start to warp."

"And start to warp," The Doctor repeated. "Maybe even…"

"Oh no." Sherlock gulped.

"No, You don't say it. Don't you dare say it…" Clara said, angrily.

"Maybe even break apart," The Doctor finished. As if on cue, a metal rod burst from the ceiling at a terrifying angle directly in front of them.

"Run?" Clara offered. They turned around, Sherlock pumped his legs as fast as they would go. Rods shot out of nowhere, from the walls, the floors, the ceilings. They dodged and ducked – how their lungs burned!

An animal groan of pain brought them to a dimly lit hallway. Tricky, the youngest member of the futuristic crew had one of the rods protruding out of his right shoulder. He was nailed to the wall. Gregor, the mean one, was failing to pull him free. It looked like agony.

"Cut it off. Just cut my arm off!" Tricky cried. His eyes were smashed shut in pain.

"No!" Gregor said, gritting his teeth.

"It's the quickest way to release me. No fear, no hate, no pain. I can get a new one. Disposable parts. Just do it. It won't hurt me." Sherlock's eyebrows drew together. How could it _not_ hurt him?

"Tricky, you don't understand," Gregor reasoned.

"I'm an android. Cut me!" An android? Interesting. Sherlock squinted at the impaled man.

Gregor seemed at loss. His hands hung limp at his sides. "Tell him," The Doctor said.

"Tell me what?" Tricky demanded.

"You can't, can you? You're a coward. You won't save him, but you're too scared to tell him why."

"What's he going on about?"

The Doctor was seething at Gregor. The anger was boiling around him. "Robots don't need blast suits. They don't need respirators. They don't get frightened of monsters in the dark." The Doctor pointed the sonic screwdriver at Tricky's eyes and the green light buzzed. "Two bionic eyes and a synthetic voice box." His gaze softened and rested a hand on Tricky's uninjured shoulder. "But you, my friend, are human. Flesh and blood."

The brothers were both hurt and lost, and one ashamed. Gregor explained how it was some sort of sick joke – inflight entertainment. Sherlock was disgusted. Finally, Gregor used some sort of electrical powered saw to cut through the metal. It was gruesome pulling Tricky away from the wall.

Sherlock didn't understand how The Doctor knew where to go. The ship was a labyrinth of identical corridors. Maybe he had a mind palace. The Doctor led them to another door, this one with a port hole. "Where are we?" Clara asked for the millionth time.

"Power source. Right, you lot," he gestured to all of them, including the heavily bandaged Tricky, "Wait here. I'll check it's safe. We can only survive a few minutes in there."

Clara tapped on The Doctor's bony shoulder. "Um…what happens if we stay longer?"

"Our cells will liquefy and our skin will start to burn," The Doctor told her promptly. Clara looked like she was about to gag.

"I always feel so good after we've spoken," she uttered.

"Marvellous. Keep this door shut." The Doctor opened the dreaded door and went into the room.

He closed the door behind him leaving Clara and Sherlock with the bickering brothers. Ignoring the fighting brothers, Sherlock nicked the scanner that The Doctor had used to find Clara. He pointed it at Clara. "Lancashire. Sass," it told them. Sherlock grinned. Clara scoffed and took it from him, turning it in his direction. "London. Know-it-all."

"Hey!" Sherlock said as Clara giggled.

"Well at least we know it works," she laughed, holding it close to her chest. Sherlock tilted his head, making his hair flop down. Clara felt a smile widen across her face. "Say please," she quipped, pointing her nose in the air.

Sherlock gaped. He scrunched up his nose. "Not my area," he sniffed. Clara flicked an eyebrow, smirking. "Fine – _please?_ " Clara slowly, delicately dropped the device back into his hand. "This is my lowest point," Sherlock mumbled. Clara's grin stretched from ear to ear. She just made Sherlock beg. John would be hysterical. Clara frowned as realisation punched her in the stomach. They couldn't tell John any of this. "Clara?" Sherlock murmured. "What is it?"

"No, no – nothing, just, nothing," She shook her head. "Just worried about the Doctor," she said smoothly. "What do you think of him anyway?"

"Idiot."

Clara jutted her chin out with a questioning glance.

"Okay – _almost_ an idiot."

"Better."

The peace didn't last long – the brothers were about to start a fist fight. Clara – short, bossy and brilliant Clara - stepped between them shouting at the top of her lungs. "STOP!" She tried to grab at their arms.

The Doctor chose that moment to barge through the door he had exited, driving the two apart. "Tricky, listen to me. Ask yourself why he couldn't cut you up. He had just one tiny scrap of decency left in him. You just helped him find that, okay? Now you. Don't ever forget this." The Doctor was right in their faces, one finger pointing at them threateningly. He went back to the door, gesturing them to all rush through.

Sherlock wasn't prepared for what he saw - no one would be. A giant fiery orb – larger than 221B, hell, probably bigger than Baker Street – lit up the room. It was suspended in a threads of burning light. His mind was about to collapse.

"The Eye of Harmony. Exploding star in the act of becoming a black hole. Time Lord engineering – you rip the star from its orbit, suspend it in a permanent state of decay."

Sherlock couldn't stop staring. _A star_. Mycroft would be so jealous.

"This way," The Doctor called, "Quickly."

They went to the other door, on the other side of the narrow bridge suspended across an impossible chasm. When The Doctor grasped the brushed metal of the handle and wrenched open the door, everyone took a shuddering step back. The monsters were there – arms aloft and mottled red skin that stretched over their skeletons. Gregor helped him slam it shut.

They rushed past Clara, Sherlock and the wounded Tricky to the other door. Another monster tried to grapple past. The Doctor used his bony shoulder to heave the door closed again. "We're trapped!" Gregor roared.

The Doctor went to sprint to the other door again but Clara stepped out in the narrow passage. She pointed at him threateningly. "You're going to tell me now! If we're going to die here, tell me what they are." She grabbed his thin arm.

"I can't," The Doctor said gravely, looking down at her with sad eyes.

"Tell me! What's the use in secrets now?"

The Doctor pressed his palms on either side of her face, stroking back her matted hair. "Secrets protect us. Secrets make us safe."

Clara pushed his hands away roughly. "We're not safe!"

Gregor, meanwhile, had grabbed the scanner out of Sherlock's pocket and was scanning the door as the creature pounded relentlessly. "Sensor detects animal DNA, human core element. Calculating data – Calculating data," it bleeped.

"No, no! Turn it off!" The Doctor stuttered, running over.

"Lancashire. Sass. Identifiable substance. Clara."

Stillness slid over everybody. Sherlock squinted at the porthole in the door. The monster there was shorter than the others, slightly wider in the hips and shoulders as well. "That's me," Clara stated, aghast. She stepped slowly towards the door.

"I'm so sorry," The Doctor mumbled.

"No," Sherlock uttered with a silent spitting rage. "Doctor – _no_." They shared a look that made Clara resolute, but undeniably queasy.

"That's me. I burn in here," she breathed.

"It isn't just the past leaking through the time rift. It's the future, listen," he cupped her face again, his back slouching over, "I brought you here to keep you safe, but it happened again. You died again."

Sherlock gulped. So did Clara. "What do you mean, again?"

The Doctor ran a defeated hand over his face and hair, dragging his long fingers down his equally long nose. He froze when he realised that one of the monsters had a hand fused – flesh on flesh – to its own face. Sherlock swallowed when he watched a pair of monsters fused together shift side to side, just like Gregor and Tricky. Then a shiver glossed down his spine as another monster, the tallest, banged heavily on the door.

"Hang on. As long as we interrupt the timeline, this can't happen." The Doctor shouted and ran to the other door, pushing the two brothers apart. "Don't touch each other; otherwise the future will reassert itself." The Doctor pulled them to the centre of the bridge just as the creatures pushed through the door.

Gregor, stood bravely up to the creatures as he and Tricky were about to be swiped at. Gregor swung a punch, making it fall over the rail. The two fused creatures ambled towards the brothers. The other two creatures were shattering the glass of the other door. Tricky, though wounded, went to strike the approaching creature with a crowbar. He had too much momentum and slid off the bridge, grasping only barely. Gregor hollered for his brother.

"Don't touch him – time will reassert itself!" The Doctor barked in warning. Gregor didn't listen and Sherlock watched as they were fried together in the essence of the burning star. The new monsters stalked hobbled towards them. Clara grabbed Sherlock's hand and they sprinted through the other door with The Doctor hot on their heels. The Doctor soniced the door shut.

"The engine room. The heart of the TARDIS," The Doctor whispered, taking Clara's hand gently. He led them through another door. And they nearly fell off the ledge of a cliff.

"We're outside!" Sherlock gasped, the breath whooshing out of him.

"No, we're still in the TARDIS."

"There's no way across," Sherlock said, his eyebrows drawing together. This was insane. A mosaic of grey rocks littered the ground until they stopped as a sharp drop led down to a somewhere so deep that they couldn't see the bottom.

"No. Okay," The Doctor clapped his hands together. "You're right."

"Finally," Sherlock grumbled.

"So what do we do?" Clara interrupted. "Time for a plan. Do either of you have a plan?"

"Well, no. No plan, sorry," The Doctor murmured.

"If you don't have a plan - we're dead!" Clara exclaimed, her boots sliding over the slippery stones.

"Well, there's no point now, we're about to die, so just tell me who you are," The Doctor demanded.

Clara jutted her chin back. "You know who I am."

"No I don't!" The Doctor growled. "And neither does Wonder Boy, over there!" He pulled at his hair. "I look at you every single day, and I don't understand a thing about you. Why do I keep running into you?"

Clara glanced worriedly at Sherlock. "Doctor…you invited me – you said…"

"Before that. I met you in the Dalek Asylum. There was a girl in a shipwreck and she died saving my life. And she was you!"

"She really wasn't," Clara replied loudly.

The Doctor pointed at Sherlock, who looked away. "Victorian London. There was a governess who was a barmaid. We fought the Great Intelligence together, she died, it was my fault – and she was you."

Clara inched towards Sherlock. "You're scaring me."

"What are you, eh? Are you a trick, a trap?"

Clara backed away, her boot skidding and she nearly fell off the edge. Both Sherlock and The Doctor lunged for her, they sandwiched her between them. "Can't….breathe…." she wheezed from the depths of their clothes.

Awkwardly, they broke apart. "She's just Clara," Sherlock barked, almost defensively.

"Yes." The Doctor smiled blearily. "I see that now."

"Okay. I don't know what the hell this is about, but the hug is really nice," Clara laughed.

"We're not going to die here!" The Doctor exclaimed, smiling insanely wide. "This isn't real! It's a snarl." He snatched a rock off the ground and threw it over the ledge.

"What?" Clara and Sherlock asked.

"What does a wounded animal do? It tries to scare everyone away. We're close to the engine. The TARDIS is snarling at us, trying to frighten us off. We need to jump."

"Machines don't snarl," Sherlock snapped.

Clara raised an eyebrow. "Yeah and you think you're hardly human yet you can still scowl like anything," she told him archly. Sherlock proceeded to scowl rather brilliantly. Clara chuckled.

"We'll cross a portal to the engine," The Doctor explained. He grinned wryly. "Geronimo."

With her boys on either side, Clara gripped their hands, and together, they jumped into the void.

Sherlock stopped falling but just as fast he nearly fell over. They were in a room, but it wasn't a room. There were suspended fragments of metal and glass and plastic, floating metres above them. Sherlock squeezed past a shard of metal, as long as his arm, which should have impaled him. It seemed as though everything had stopped in the midst of an explosion.

"The heart of the TARDIS. The engine - it's already exploded. It must have been the collision with the salvage ship."

"We're not dead," Clara smiled, playfully punching Sherlock in the shoulder. They grinned at each other.

"She, the TARDIS, froze it. Temporary fix. Eventually, this whole place will erupt. There's no way I can save her now. She's just always been there for me, taken care of me. Now it's my turn and I don't know what to do. It…it just…" The desperation and sadness seeped off The Doctor and pooled on the floor like thick maple syrup. Clara sensed this and clasped his hand.

Suddenly, The Doctor lifted her hand, peering at the palm. "Oh, Clara. You are beautiful." He gazed in awe at her palm. "Beautiful fragile human skin," He kissed her soft palm, "Like parchment. Thank you. The rift in time. All the memories leaking out. I need to find the moment we crashed. I need to find…the music."

Then, for the billionth time, they ran.

Unsurprisingly, the three ended up in the consul room. Clara smiled at where the doors stood resolutely. Thank goodness. A shaft of light spiralled out of the wall on the far side. Sherlock tilted his head, studying the new discovery. "The time rift. Recent past. Possible future." "What are you going to do?" Sherlock wondered aloud.

Grabbing a silver orb, The Doctor used the end of his sonic screw driver to scribble something on it. "Rewrite today, I hope. I've thrown this through the rift before. I need to make sure this time. Going to take it in there myself. There might be a certain amount of yelling."

"Is it going to hurt?" Clara asked, concerned.

"Things that end your life often do that."

"Wait! All those things you said. How we've met before. How I died...Sherlock won't remember meeting you!" Clara whined.

The Doctor turned round, a foot from the rift. "Clara, don't worry. You'll forget. Time mends us. It can mend anything."

"I don't want to forget. Not all of it. The library. I saw it. You were mentioned in a book!" Her slight shoulders heaved up and down. "You have a name, a proper name, I've seen it. In one corner of that tiny…"

The Doctor pressed a finger to her lips. She stopped mid-sentence. "If I rewrite today, you won't remember. You won't go looking for my name."

"Sometimes…secrets are better kept hidden," Sherlock murmured, a few feet away.

"Wonder Boy is correct, for once," The Doctor grinned then stepped into the rift. He screamed in agony, the light streaming around him before he disappeared entirely. And then there was blackness.


	34. Let's Have Dinner

Mornin'.

Oh dearie me, Sherlock season 4 is doing my head in.

* * *

Thanks to: tifani007, DrLevoda Kate Elizabeth Black and HermioneAnnabeth11

Oslock: Ooh yes, though bastard feels! AND THE EPISODES!

ProudlyOslocked (guest): Hahahaha I love it! The only thing that the Doctor and Sherlock have in common is their protectiveness over Clara and the constant "CLARA!". I'm so glad all this character development is coming through. Sherlock is realising just how big his heart is!

RebeccaFox: eeek! Thank you! I loved writing the Doctor/Sherlock banter. It was so much fun - like they were both tugging on Clara, insisting they were better.

Smauglock: Ah yes, we're all a tad disappointed that Mr Hiddleston wasn't casted after all. Well, well, well, you'll just have to wait and see...

* * *

Sherlock felt strange. Not normal strange, like when the police men whisper about him in shadows. Or when John doesn't understand. Or when he pulls the needle out of his arm and it still doesn't feel like release. He felt like he hadn't slept. _No_. Sherlock shook his tired curls. He just woke up but it felt like he had already completed today.

Irene still played on his mind like a mournful tune playing in his ears. Red lips whispering, glacier eyes and raven hair fluttering over her forehead. Sherlock picked up his violin and stood by the window. He let the music flow out of him like a melodic waterfall.

.

Clara didn't know where she was going. Probably Mycroft, but who knew. A woman sat in the leather seat behind her, constantly texting. _Tap, tap, tap_. Clara rested her head on the window. She was so tired. She hadn't put any make-up on and her hair was a flat mess. Clara should've seen it coming when they pulled up at the power complex. It was a dreary grey building made up of cement blocks and rusty pipes. Dead grass littered the gargantuan structure in a dismal ring. Usually John only met Mycroft here, Clara preferred the Diogenes club, even though she nearly got banned from it.

Clara's tiny feet scuffed the rubble and echoed across the cold halls. "I already told you in the text, Mycroft," Clara called. "He doesn't eat, doesn't sleep – corrects the television or Oscar whenever he opens his mouth. I don't think your right about my influence over him. The present sort of helped but…he's heartbroken….and..."

Clara was about to carry on when a slim figure walked into view. "Hello, Clara Oswald," Irene Adler declared with a gilded smile.

Clara stopped in her tracks. Cold sweat trickled down her back. Her brain fired questions around until a thought struck her. "Tell him you're alive," Clara whispered immediately.

"Why? Why does Miss Oswald care so much about her darling Sherlock?" Irene practically twisted her red painted nails into Clara's gut.

"You broke him. He's not the same."

Irene toed the ground with her heel. "You mean – not the same with you?" She gave a lazy smile. "You hate me but you lust over me, don't worry – I do that a lot." She tilted her head, her earrings glinting. "So why do you want dear Sherlock to know I'm alive? If I was in your shoes, I'd want me to stay dead."

"You lack conviction," Clara hissed. "All you do is hide in shadows and whisper strange nothings into stranger's ears." She crossed her arms across her chest. "So prove to me you don't – _tell him_."

"You're jealous," Irene said, her eyes gleamed like ice. Her canines sparkled. "You're in love with him. But you'd rather make him happy than yourself."

"Tell him or I will," Clara said through painfully gritted teeth. She did love Sherlock. People always said you're supposed to love your job. Well, Clara fit that category.

Irene slunk towards her. She snaked a hand into her pocket and pulled out her phone. She smiled at the screen. "'Good morning'; 'I like your funny hat' ; 'I'm sad tonight, let's have dinner'; 'You looked sexy on 'Crimewatch', let's have dinner'."

Clara squirmed. "I don't care if you flirted with him-"

" _At_ him," Irene corrected. "He never replies."

"What?" Clara slipped out. She didn't mean to sound so surprised. "He's Mr. Punchline, he always has to have the last word."

"Does that make me special," Irene sniffed.

Clara almost flinched. "Who cares."

"Huh. You really are jealous."

"We're not like _that_ ," Clara snapped. She wiped her hands on her skirt. "It's not-It's not…like that."

"Does he know that?" Irene muttered, tapping at her phone. Her tone said he didn't. "There: 'I'm not dead, let's have dinner'." She pressed the send button.

Clara turned back and forth angrily. "What's your problem? Seriously, what is the point of your games?"

Irene's lips drew in a thin line. Her eyes burned. "You both desire me, one desires the other, the other is oblivious. The only game is deciding out who is who."

Clara was infuriated. Irene was speaking in poisonous riddles. Then, a sensual sigh bounced off the icy walls. Clara gasped when she heard footsteps thunder rapidly away. "Sherlock," Clara whispered. Instead of moving straight away, she turned to Irene. Irene was so tall, regardless of the heels. She was strong with her blood red lips and glowing skin that looked ethereal in her black dress. Clara felt like a child next to her.

"You're wrong," Clara told her. Irene frowned. She looked lost for a second. "He does know – he's Sherlock – but not because of his brilliant mind." She gave Irene one last scalding look and ran after him.

Human error. That was what she had screamed to him through her dark stare, the night at the swimming pool. He had turned into a stuttering mess. All the adrenaline had lifted Clara up to the stars as she roared it. Sometimes she wished she hadn't. They never talked of it. Last time she tried, Sherlock ran from the room to go buy milk. He didn't come back until after dark.

They both knew what it meant. Clara knew Sherlock understood – but maybe he didn't believe it. He was the Human. The desperate human who cared for his friends more than they did for themselves. Clara had seen it: whether it be the warning in Irene Adler's house or at the pool when he could have left them for dead, but didn't. If only everyone else could see just how big his heart really was.

Clara was the Error. She was in love with a man, as scarred as a broken porcelain doll. Only an idiot would do that - it's impossible to put the pieces back together. Sherlock had met someone who cared more about the others than he did. Clara wasn't sure which part he was surprised about the most. She didn't really want to know.

Clara got back to 221B before Sherlock did. Wherever he had fled, he must have taken a side stop. Clara figured she would too, if you just found out a person like Irene was alive. Clara paused on the doorstep. The door was ajar. The door is never ajar. She poked her head in, treading softly on the boards. A collection of cleaning materials was abandoned in the foyer. There was a feeble shriek from upstairs. "Mrs Hudson?" Clara called, nervously.

No one answered. Clara's chin wobbled. Then, there was the click of a gun. Clara held her hands up, slowly, and turned around. One of the American's from Irene Adler's house. Clara's mouth ran dry.

.

Sherlock's blood was running cold when the door was ajar. No one does that. They always shut the door or Anderson will take it as an invitation. The cleaning bucket and chemicals littering the hall gave an indicator but it was Clara that made his skin freeze. She squeaked something at him. She was handcuffed roughly to the rail on the bottom of the stairs.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, Mrs Hudson!" Clara started to babble but Sherlock wasn't listening. There were red handprints on her thighs. There were handprints on her delicate skin. Sherlock's blood boiled. He was going to rip out their throats. "Sherlock!" Clara whispered sharply. He finally looked at her, gravely. "Sherlock, Mrs Hudson is upstairs."

"Clara did they-"

" _Mrs Hudson_ ," she repeated.

Sherlock searched her eyes. They were swirling masses of chocolate hues. They held nothing but fear for the old lady. Why couldn't she just be selfish for once? Sherlock's mouth and eyes twitched. As quiet as a mouse he snagged a pin from her hand and jiggled it in the lock. A tiny click made them finally breath.

Sherlock caught her by the shoulders as Clara lurched for the stairs. He wrapped and arm round her as they silently struggled. "Get in the closet," Sherlock hissed, nodding to the cupboard underneath the stairs.

"I'm not getting in there with the umbrellas," she spat. She tried to side step him again but Sherlock merely swung her back round again.

"Ten minutes," he snarled. A promise.

Clara sucked on her teeth. "Fine," she growled. Also a promise. To hit him if he didn't go get Mrs Hudson. "But I'm not hiding in the broom cupboard."

Sherlock honestly didn't care where she went. So long as she didn't hear the screams.

.

Mrs Hudson was patched up, an American had accidentally fallen from the window a few times, Lestrade had been and gone, so Sherlock cornered Clara in the stairwell where they had a silent, hissing argument over the American situation until Sherlock got his answers. John remained concerned over Mrs Hudson's sanity, requesting that she should take a vacation. If Mrs Hudson left, London would fall.

Today was an incredibly important day. Clara eyed the lumpy green couch with a triumphant smile and picked up the last box littering the living room. There was a connecting door to 221A. Mrs Turner had covered it with a solid wooden bookshelf but Clara made John shift it aside. The door squeaked and whined on its hinges as Clara pushed it open. 221A was actually larger than 221B. The kitchen was bigger but the stairways were narrower to accommodate.

Clara only had numerous boxes of her belongings. A lot of her duvets, blankets and squat furniture had been destroyed in the collapsing of the roof a month ago. However, Clara's fat pay cheques over the last few weeks had all gone towards new furniture. A wheezing grind of a truck pulled to a stop in front of Baker Street. Clara squealed in delight. She raced back into 221B. "Sherlock! John!" She sang, whilst spinning round the room.

John set down his newspaper and cleared his throat. Obediently, he wandered downstairs. "No," Sherlock said, with a surly curl of his lip.

Clara waltzed over to him and crossed her arms. "You promised," She replied.

Sherlock made a disgusted face while plucking his violin's strings. "When?"

Clara rolled her eyes. "I've been sleeping on that couch – which is like a potato sack – and your cardboard mattress for weeks!"

"So?" Sherlock spat, "It's not my fault the roof collapsed."

Clara put her hands on the arms of the chair, leaning in close to his face. "Sherlock," she started, "You are going to help me make my new flat look amazing or I will ring your mother _right now_."

Sherlock's eye twitched, an inch from hers. She could feel his breath on her face. "You're lying," he said.

"I went over for Easter. Her peanut butter cookies are divine. Your dad spilt jam on his shirt again." Clara felt a smirk tickle her mouth. "Your parents think I'm wonderful."

Sherlock sniffed reproachfully. "Fine," he muttered and pushed past her. Clara beamed, prodding him all the way out to the furniture van.

Clara was incredibly evil. That's what Sherlock and John thought as she made them heave furniture up the cramped stairs. Sherlock had his dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his jacket long forgotten on one of the railings. "Why…are there so many… _things!_ " John gasped. Sherlock couldn't see him over the other end of the dresser he had tilted dangerously as they plodded up the steps. 221A was recently painted, so it smelt ghastly and boxes and boxes of Clara's new belongings made terrifying structures in every corner.

Sherlock wiped the sweat of his brow. He'd need a shower. A 'v' on the back of his purple shirt was plastered to his skin. "Please, please, tell me that's it," John puffed, setting down his end of the dresser.

"Yes," Clara sang, emerging from her nest of cardboard. John heaved a dramatic breath and thundered down the stairs.

"Clara?"

"Mmmm?"

"Is this a connecting door?" Sherlock twisted the rusting handle of the narrow door. It squeaked in his hands.

"Oh, yeah – but don't you boys use it as a liberty!"

Clara was very, very, very wrong.


	35. Might Be Hungry

Hiya.

Whoa _The Final Problem_ is a wild ride.

Terribly sorry for this chapter. It's not my best.

* * *

Thanks to: katrin-katirina, Charlie-BADWOLF, Ashelonimacaroni, cloudyazurephoenix, mjcameron, SeleneAlice, -Trafalgar, Vanillabomb22 and Sketchtablet

* * *

CresantShooter123: Hehe _love is in the air_ …

ProudlyOslocked (guest): Irene loves to play with Clara and Sherlock. She wants to meddle with their lives. Fantastic idea! I laughed out loud (rather ungracefully) at your dialogue. Spot on!

Pri-Chan 1410: Oh, thank you! I hope you enjoy it.

Smauglock (guest): Merely a door between 221A and B! Ah yes, the 'sweat patch'…I couldn't resist.

Oslock: Irene just likes to play god with people's feelings – she wanted to make Sherlock and Clara squirm.

Aubrey Cortez: Very good question that requires a reasonable answer. There is alien life and detective life – Clara didn't want them to clash. She's paid to keep an eye on Mr Holmes soooo. Yep, there's my excuse :)

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was a giant, selfish prick. Clara couldn't pin point the exact instance that it happened, but the idea to grapple is that Sherlock was a nuisance. The door, slightly squeaky, was a gateway between 221A and 221B. It was hardly ever closed. Sherlock stalked through like it was merely a convenient extension of his own flat. There were already petri dishes smashed in the sink and a dagger stabbed into the upholstery on the chaise. Sherlock was like a cat, claiming whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

Another important idea was that Sherlock didn't comprehend personal space. It was a mystery left unsolved. Clara waltzed to the fridge one fateful day and ended up screaming at the top her lungs. Sherlock rushed in through the connecting door, his hair swishing and his hands braced in the air. "Sherlock!" Clara shrieked angrily, her eyes blazing. She held onto the kitchen bench while she gulped in air. "There is a FOOT IN MY FRIDGE!"

Sherlock deflated. "Seriously?" He uttered. His body slackened and he gave her a disconcerted look. "I thought you'd been attacked or something."

"You can't put limbs in the vegetable drawer!" Clara protested. She pointed at the refrigerator. "Get it out, now."

Sherlock threw his hands in the air. "Where will I put it? Mrs Hudson's stuffed our fridge with the new wonder-food. Kale? Is that it? It tastes ghastly."

"Well then throw the kale out, silly!" She rubbed her forehead. "I am not having body parts in my apartment."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "It's science," he retorted, placing his hands on his hips.

Clara fumed from her side of the kitchen. "I don't care, get the foot out of my flat or I'll call Mycroft."

Sherlock sucked in a breath. He could never refuse Clara when she was this angry. " _Fine_."

"Good," Clara snapped. "I don't know how you even got yourself a flatmate," she muttered, as he snatched the plastic bag from beside the tomatoes.

"Neither do I," he agreed, swinging the bag to and fro merrily.

Clara shuddered. "Shoo!"

.

Another female presence graced 221B a few days later. Sherlock stilled at the front door. A scent tickled his nostrils. It wasn't the burnt soufflé smell of Clara's clothes or the lemon hand cream she used. It was a musky, deep rose smell, sticking to the dark paint on the door. Sherlock opened the door and wandered up the stairs. The smell grew stronger by the open window above the kitchen bench. A red slash of nail polish was staining the sill. Sherlock marched to his bedroom, John jumped from his chair and following him. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock, with his coat still on, opened the door. Even Clara knew Sherlock never closed his door. Childish mistake. "We have a client," Sherlock explained.

"In your bedroom...?!" John babbled. His jaw dropped when he spotted the figure stretched out like a cat across the sheets. "Oh." Irene Adler, fully clothed and somehow still smirking, was sound asleep.

Sherlock suddenly whirled on John, his coat swirling with him. "Don't tell Clara," he said, deadly serious.

"Why...why...?" John peered up at him.

Sherlock let out an angry sigh, pushing past John. He flounced into his chair. "You wouldn't understand...it's," his mouth cut into a frustrated line, "Women."

"Sherlock, which one of us has had a girlfriend?" John asked, feeling a tad irritated. "You think Clara is going to get jealous or angry or whatever, again and take it out on you? Don't you?" John suddenly let out a whisper of a laugh. "Oh my god," he chuckled.

"What? John?"

John turned round, laughing his way back to the living room. "You, the great Sherlock Holmes, is scared of _Clara_."

"What. No!" Sherlock looked disgusted as he flung off his coat and suit jacket.

John shook his head, smiling. He sat down in his chair, patting the armrests gleefully. " _Terrified_."

Sherlock twisted his mouth, suddenly having nothing to say. He could deny it, and look like an idiot or change the subject and appear defensive. Sherlock would never believe that he was afraid of Clara Oswald. Even if she did have his mother's phone number. And a glare that could send Mycroft to the pits of the ocean. "Shut up," Sherlock snapped. At least that made John choke on his tea.

Silence lapsed between them but Sherlock could feel John's eyes on him. If only Irene would wake up. "Sherlock?" John finally said.

"Mmmm." Sherlock murmured, flicking the newspaper idly.

"Do you...?" John trailed off, raising his eyebrows.

"If you don't struggle to the end of the question, how on earth do you suppose I answer it?" Sherlock snapped, straightening the finance section.

"God..." they heard Clara say as she dumped her bag in the on the kitchen bench. John jolted uncomfortably. "You sound just like Mycroft." Sherlock sneered reproachfully in response. "What the hell is she doing here?" Clara suddenly exclaimed, her cheeks leaching of colour.

Irene swaggered into the living room, sliding onto the desk. She had wrapped one of Sherlock's silk dressing gowns round her curvy figure. Her dark, wet hair hung around her pale face. "Oh I'm sorry, did I startle you?" She smirked, folding one leg over another. She wasn't apologetic at all.

Clara bristled. Sherlock changed the subject swiftly. "So who's after you?"

"People who want to kill me," Irene sighed.

"Who's that?"

"Killers," she allowed, glancing at the ceiling.

John crossed his arms. "You could be a tiny bit more specific," he growled.

Clara threw off her coat and stood as far from Irene as she could possibly get. Her chin jutted out defensively. Sherlock ignored Clara, feeling the feud was edging on ridiculous. "So you faked your death to get ahead of them."

"It worked for a while," Irene shrugged.

"Except you told the woman working for the most powerful man in Britain," Sherlock muttered. "And therefore me."

Irene smiled at Clara. It wasn't a nice smile. The type of sneer that sent chills to the bone. "I wasn't worried, you Holmes's would never tell a soul." She looked around the apartment with keen eyes. "Now, where's my camera phone?"

"Not here," Clara snapped.

Irene rolled her eyes. "Lying really isn't your forte, darling."

"If you're so perceptive, you might know that Sherlock opened up a safety deposit box in a bank on the Strand."

Irene's eyes flicked to Sherlock. "I need it, Sherlock."

.

Everything Irene did made Clara as angry as Mrs Hudson was when she found out about her cheating boyfriend. Clara wanted to throw the teapot at Sherlock's head, or maybe Irene's - she couldn't make up her mind. Irene, in the stupid dressing gown, sitting on the stupid desk. "The information on there," Clara said, nodding at Irene, "How do you get it?"

"I misbehave," Irene answered saucily. Sherlock pulled the phone swiftly out of his trouser pocket and wiggled it between his fingers. Irene stared at it hungrily. "Give it to me," she demanded.

"I think you've acquired something that's more danger than protection. Do you know what it is?"

"Yes, but I don't understand it."

"I assumed. Show me."

Clara early scoffed. _Cause he assumed, she just told him!_ Clara seethed in the corner. Irene held a delicate hand out instead. Her fingertips were an inch from the phone.

"The passcode," Sherlock requested. Irene ignored him, her fingers twitching.

Sighing, Sherlock handed her the device. Quickly, she tapped in the code. Her face fell as the phone blipped. "It's not working!"

"No, because it's a duplicate I had made and you've typed in the numbers one-oh-five-eight." Sherlock stood up, snatching the fake phone and silently asking Clara to throw him the real one, which was wedged between the cushions on the bottle green couch. _No_ , Clara deadpanned with her dark eyes. Sherlock, sniffing angrily, shouldered passed her and got it himself. He typed Irene's code in and his face immediately slackened. It was the wrong password.

"I told you that camera phone was my life," Irene said, holding her hand out gracefully, "I know when it's in my hand."

Sherlock gave her the phone, in silent awe. "You're rather good."

That sly smile appeared again. "You're not so bad yourself."

Clara shook her head as fire curled in her stomach. She'd had enough of Irene and Sherlock flirting, seducing and deceiving each other. _Just because Irene has legs like a giraffe_ , Clara thought roughly, her neck burning. "Bye," Clara told them all coolly and slammed the door into her apartment.

Clara sunk to the floor, holding her knees. She could hear their muffled conversations through the wood. Eyeing each other off. Irene looking him up and down. Clara could imagine it. Irene and Sherlock were like hawks, swooping for prey. Clara felt like a dung beetle compared to them. Words suddenly exploded in rapid fire through the wood. Sherlock was speaking, explaining something to Irene. Showing off. He never intentionally deduced something that fast. His deep voice made Clara curl her toes angrily. Clara lent her ear against the wood. "I would have you right here, on this desk until you begged for mercy twice," Irene said intensely.

Clara felt the heat prick her neck. She pressed her ear harder against the door. "I've never begged for mercy in my life," he replied.

"Twice," Irene promised.

Liar, Clara immediately thought. Liar, liar, liar. Clara had made him beg before. She doubted anyone else had heard him utter a pitiful " _please_ ". Clara had made him apologise, forgive and thank others. Clara had made him promise, back when Moriarty was bombing London, to never place a life in danger for the sake of a game. Irene could take her sweet words and go back to the hole she came from. Clara pushed off the ground and brushed off her skirt. Feeling a tad smug, she popped the kettle on, humming a tune. She lured the hot water into a cup, bashing around the tea bag. Then her phone blipped. Clara picked it up, turning the screen on. Clara dropped her mug, numbness shattering through her as the cup exploded likewise on the floor. _Coventry has fallen_ , it read. She yanked open the connecting door with trembling hands and snatched her handbag off the couch. "Where are you off to?" John asked, nervously. He was watching Clara's shoulders shake.

Clara shook her head. "Idiot," she spat at Sherlock before flying down the stairs.

.

 _Idiot_ , Sherlock thought. In what way was he an idiot? He'd saved lives, countless of times and all he got from Clara Oswald was a burning glare and a snarky insult. Maybe Mycroft was poisoning her mind with dull government business. Politics were right next to Mrs Hudson's shopping habits on the scale of boredom. A good murder would set Clara back on her feet. Sherlock's brain nagged at him. Liar, liar, pants on fire. _I have never begged for mercy in my life_. His eye had twitch when saying that, flicking towards Clara's door. She had been listening, Sherlock had realised. The shaft of light underneath the door was blotted put by Clara's smudge. Rookie mistake. It was then that Sherlock came to realise how often she dragged promises from his lips. How she had made him ask nicely, rather than demand answers. Mycroft really had found the perfect baby sitter.

"Where's John?" Sherlock suddenly asked, the room coming back into focus. It was dark, with the exception of the dull lights and blazing fireplace.

"He went out a couple of hours ago," a voice answered. Sherlock followed the words to chapped lips, with a faint stain of lipstick smeared across. Irene.

"I was just talking to him," Sherlock frowned, looking behind his shoulder.

Irene smiled gracefully. "He said you do that. What's Coventry got to do with anything?"

Sherlock was puzzled for a second. He must have said it out loud. Irene sat forward, clearly interested. "It's a story, probably not true. In the Second World War, the Allies knew that Coventry was going to get bombed because they'd broken the German code but they didn't want the Germans to know that they'd broken the code, so they let it happen anyway."

"Have you ever had anyone?" Irene suddenly asked, her eyes glinting.

Sherlock frowned. The meaning escaped him. Were they not talking about the code breakers in the Second World War? _Had_ anyone? Did she mean had anyone over for dinner - no, why would he invite strangers. "Sorry?" Sherlock rumbled, confusion flickering behind his eyes.

"And when I say ' _had_ ', I'm being indelicate," Irene continued, her lips curling.

"I don't understand," Sherlock replied. Three words only John spoke on a regular basis. They tasted funny; something close to defeat.

"Then I'll be delicate," Irene whispered. She rose from her seat with feline grace and kneeled before him, catching his hand and twisting her own fingers around it. "Let's have dinner."

"Why?"

"Might be hungry."

"I'm not."

Irene smiled. "Good."

An idea floated in Sherlock's mind. Like a single cloud on a clear day. He sat forward, tracing her exposed wrist with his pale fingers. "Why would I want to have dinner if I wasn't hungry?"

Irene's nose nearly brushed his. "Oh, Mr Holmes..." Her eyes traced his lips. Sherlock dragged a finger over the skin on her wrist, testing, deducing. "If it were the end of the world, if this was the very last night - would you have dinner with me?"

Sherlock didn't really want to reply. Those seductive eyes were staring at him hungrily. Irene's pulse tapped out a tattoo beneath his fingertips. Did she know that he had already beaten her? Mrs Hudson chose that moment to bumble up the stairs, her hands flapping about in a dither. "Sherlock!" She screeched, puffing loudly.

"Too late," Irene said ruefully, her voice as soft as air.

"That's not the end of the world, it's Mrs Hudson," Sherlock muttered. Clara would say it was the end of the world. Ignore Mrs Hudson and she won't buy jammy dodgers for a week. Irene slunk back to her chair, regardless.

"Sherlock, this man was at the door. Is the bell still not working?" She turned to the suited man, whispering loudly, "He shot it!"

"Have you come to take me away again?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer. At least he had clothes on this time.

"Yes, Mr Holmes."

"Well I decline," He retorted.

"Miss Oswald said you would say that," the man told them. Sherlock started but an envelope holding a plane ticket was dropped in his lap. "She also said to give you this."

Sherlock glared at the paper. He was scheduled to fly on a plane that would be bombed in a few hours. Clara had a dark sense of humour today. "Fine," he uttered, and grabbed his coat.


	36. Chemical Defect

Time has gotten away from me! After all the reviews demanding me to update, I hope you're glad I've finally done it!

On another note, I have recently written two chapters (oooh) of the **SEQUEL** to this story. Now, now, don't get your knickers in a twist, _Soufflés, Skype and Sherlock Holmes_ will be finishing at _The Reichenbach Fall_ but…It will continue on in another fanfic, which I do have a title to but I'm a prick so I'm not telling you yet :)

Spoiler: Writing it actually made me cry.

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Thanks to: The mad wolf, GreenVeilWho, Fandomunicornss, EatsRainbow, EvilRandomCrazyPerson, AlastrinaF, quidditchers, Biscuitea, sisencetoaha and SHSLseer.

CresantShooter123: Hehe, he'll never get away with anything while she's looking after him.

Smauglock (guest): Moriarty and Euros?! I'm not sure if I like that or not! Hmmm, I definitely want more Moriarty in the TV Show though….

Charlotte Amelie: I know you reviewed on Chapter 8 but I am hoping you'll read this one day - thank you so much for the correction!

The Best Guesst: Oh my gosh in one whole day?! Well done, you! Awww, so many compliments - thank you.

sarah. 2: Thank you! I hope you enjoy the rest of the story as it comes.

DemigodOfTheTARDIS: Aww, thanks! I hope you keep being awesome too.

ProudlyOslocked (guest): Ahah the irony *crying* I know a lot of people don't like Mary, but personally she's one of my favourite characters.

Guest: Haha thanks for the review,Figit!

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I present to you, the unbecoming of Irene Adler…

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Sherlock had gotten himself into trouble. Again. He had put the relations between Britain and the United States into jeopardy. Clara clutched her phone, pacing along the aisle of the plane. Bodies surrounded her. Clara tried to imagine them as snoozing passengers but the paleness of their skin sent ghostly thoughts into her head. They were all dead. Their grey skin softly illuminated in the fluorescent lights was a stark reminder. Mycroft was frowning at the ground, prodding the carpet with his umbrella. Clara knew a small part of him blamed her. Clara's one job was to keep Sherlock out of trouble. Actual trouble, not the petty murders he danced around. The terrorists had heard of the lifeless plane and now years of scheming had gone to waste. Because Clara Oswald was too jealous and too stupid to intervene.

Careful footsteps creaked on the other end of the plane. Sherlock was sniffing around, connecting the still people to actual death. "The Coventry conundrum," Mycroft said, his voice a poisonous waft of smoke. "What do you think of my solution?" Sherlock looked up, eyeing his brother and Clara. "The flight of the dead."

"The plane blows up mid air, success for the terrorists. Hundreds of casualties but nobody dies," Sherlock concluded, turning on his heels. His eyes flicked across the corpses and the interior of the plane.

"Neat don't you think?" Mycroft said. Something close to a smile washed over his face. Maybe it was a grimace. "You've been stumbling around the fringes for ages. Or were you too bored to notice the pattern?" Mycroft's face was nearly as pale as the deceased's. "We ran a similar project with the Germans a while back, though I believe one of our passengers didn't make the flight." He was talking about the body found in the boot of a car a few months ago. A ticket for this flight was there, even the silly biscuits given on airplanes. "But that's the deceased for you – late, in every sense of the word," Mycroft told them, his voice insensitive.

"How's the plane going to fly?" Sherlock wondered. Mycroft had hardly opened his mouth when Sherlock answered himself. "Ah, unmanned aircraft. Hardly new."

"It's _never_ going to fly, Sherlock," Clara blurted. He stared at her, confusion plain on his chiseled face. Clara swallowed, avoiding his gaze.

Mycroft breathed in sharply, angrily. "The entire project is cancelled. The terrorist cells have been informed that we know about the bomb. We can't fool them now. We've lost everything. One fragment of one email, and months and years of planning finished."

"You're MOD man," Sherlock muttered, pacing forward.

"That's all it takes: one lonely naïve man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special."

"Hmm. You should screen your defence people more carefully," Sherlock offered, quirking a brow.

"Sherlock!" Clara exclaimed furiously, pulling at her hair. He could be so incredibly dense sometimes.

"We're not talking about the Minister of Defence, Sherlock, we're talking about _you!_ " Mycroft snarled furiously. The tip of his umbrella struck the floor angrily. He smiled ironically. "The damsel in distress," his voice turned sinisterly soft, "In the end, are you really so obvious? Because this was textbook: the promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; then give him a puzzle...and watch him dance." Mycroft twirled his umbrella, frowning.

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock snapped.

"It's true," Clara pleaded. "I'm so, so sorry. I should've warned you." Her eyes grew watery and her hands sweaty.

"You knew?" Sherlock demanded.

"Of course I did!" Clara answered. Shame bubbled in her stomach. She was supposed to look after him.

Mycroft looked like he wanted to put a hand on her shoulder. "It's not your fault Clara, my little brother cannot resist showing off." He looked down his nose at Sherlock. "How long did it take to decipher that email for her." By her, he didn't mean Clara. "Was it a full minute or were you really eager to impress?"

"I think it was less than five seconds," Irene Adler said. Sherlock whirled. This was The Woman at her best, immaculate right down to the perfectly painted nails. She smiled as if she had already won. Clara knew she had.

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "I drove her into your path," he looked at his shoes. "I'm sorry; I didn't know." That was a low blow for Mycroft; apologising to his brother.

"Mr Holmes," Irene signed, "I think we need to talk."

"So do I," Sherlock, told her. "There are still some aspects I'm not quite clear on."

Irene scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Oh no you, Junior, you're done." Clara tried to hide in the shadows behind Mycroft as Irene swaggered towards him. She held up the phone, the key to everything. "There's more ... loads more. On this phone I've got secrets, pictures and scandals that could topple your whole world. You have no idea how much havoc I can cause and exactly one way to stop me – unless you want to tell your masters that your biggest security leak is your own little brother."

Mycroft looked away and Irene gave a blood red smile.

.

They were shepherded into sleek cars with tinted windows and driven to Mycroft's office. Irene strutted in like she owned it, eyeing off the furniture as if she was going to burn it. Clara figured she probably could and Mycroft wouldn't bat an eye. Sherlock lounged in a leather arm chair. Clara would have thought him relaxed if it weren't for his jittery fingers and flickering eyes. Mycroft and Irene seated themselves on opposite ends of the dining table whilst Clara sat in the only other seat, next to Sherlock. Clara and Sherlock were turned away from the table, looking into the flames curling around the logs in the fireplace. "I'm sorry," Clara whispered, as Mycroft and Irene bargained.

"It's not your fault," Sherlock replied in equal softness. Clara would look at him, so they could speak plainly through their eyes but she couldn't bare it. She didn't know if she wanted him to see what sat in her mind. He wouldn't like it.

"It has to be someone's."

"Then it should be mine."

Clara shook her head slightly, lest Mycroft would see or hear. "I'm paid to keep you out of trouble, Cheekbones." Clara looked at her shoes, curling her hands underneath her chin. "I shouldn't have run away." Irene's silky voice and dangerous smile directed at Sherlock always made her too angry to be in the same room.

"More sensible than staying," Sherlock reasoned under his breath. "I was so _stupid_." He bit his thumb as if to stop a growl from clawing out of his throat.

Clara smiled. "Yes, but you're still a little bit of a complete genius," she offered. "I doubt we can make it any worse now."

Mycroft and Irene were talking at them, which required little in return. Sherlock explained how the camera phone, resting between Irene and Mycroft, could not be opened by force as explosives were wired inside it. Clara was as noticeable as a pot plant while Sherlock was the naughty boy in the corner. Irene wanted him on a leash. When Mycroft rose to go and meet Irene's exorbitant demands, Sherlock suddenly said "No".

Irene's smile faltered for a second. "Sorry?" She stuttered.

"I said no. Very, very close - but no." Sherlock stifled a smile.

Clara's brows drew together. "Sherlock? What are you on about?"

The detective stood up, walking confidently. His lip quirked in amusement. "You got carried away. The game was too elaborate. You were enjoying yourself too much."

"There's no such thing as too much," Irene replied, an eyebrow arching.

Sherlock shook his head, his curls wafting. He looked down his long nose at Irene. "Oh, enjoying the thrill of the chase is fine, craving the distraction of the game – I sympathise entirely – but sentiment? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."

Irene looked around the room, confused. "Sentiment?" She scoffed. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock fixed his stare in hers. " _You_."

Clara nearly tumbled out of the chair. _What the heck, Cheekbones?_ She glanced at Mycroft, but his face was unreadable. Irene laughed and smiled heartily. "Oh dear god, look at the poor man," she teased. "You don't actually think I was interested in you?" Her eyes were wide with surprise. "Why? Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?"

Sherlock simply stepped closer, his usual arrogance returning to him. "No," he murmured, an inch away from her. "Because I took your pulse." Swiftly, he took her hand, pressing his fingertips to the indents on her wrist. "Elevated; pupils dilated," he told her, tightening his grip. Irene frowned in confusion. Her lips parted worriedly. Sherlock, dropped her hand and leaned past her grab the phone from the table. "I imagine John Watson thinks love's a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple, and very destructive."

Sherlock turned away, pacing closer to Clara. Irene followed him unable to drag her eyes away. Sherlock turned to The Woman. "When we first met, you told me that disguise is always a self-portrait. How true of you: the combination to your safe – your measurements; but this..." Sherlock tossed the phone up into the air and caught it, "...this is far too intimate." The lock screen glowed in the dim lighting, ' _I AM - LOCKED_ ' was brightest of all. "This is your heart..." Sherlock punched in the first number. Clara held her breath. If he was wrong...

"And you should never let it rule your head..." His finger hovered over the screen. "You could have chosen any random number and walked out of here today with everything you've worked for..." He tapped the second character. "But you couldn't resist, could you? I've always assumed that love is a dangerous disadvantage." Sherlock was looking at Irene as he punched in the third number, her glacier eyes had lost their steeliness. "Thank you, for the final proof." The fourth and final letter shone on the screen.

 _Oh you clever boy_ , Clara thought. Irene seized his hand with terrified fingers. "It was never real, none of it, none of the things I said. I was just playing the game," she whispered.

"I know," Sherlock, said. "And this is just losing." He shows her the screen with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. ' _I AM SHER LOCKED_ '. Sherlock gave Mycroft the phone, as if he was handing him the most valued jewel in all of England. Irene stared at Sherlock, her eyes full of despair. But Sherlock was still Sherlock and he had no comfort in his chilling, smug gaze. "There you are, brother. I hope the contents make up for any inconvenience I may have caused you tonight."

"I'm certain it will," Mycroft replied, pacing towards the door. Clara could almost see a spring in his step.

"If you're feeling kind, lock her up; otherwise let her go. I doubt she'll survive long without her protection," Sherlock said.

Irene's eyes were full of dread. She already looked like a dead woman. "Are you expecting me to beg?"

It was nearly a rhetorical question if Sherlock hadn't replied flatly, "Yes."

"Please," Irene swallowed desperately. "You're right - I won't even last six months."

"Sorry about dinner," Sherlock told her, in some sort of twisted good bye. He left, Clara trailing behind him.

"I'm sorry," Clara told her, actual pity in her voice. She couldn't help it. Irene had meddled in troublesome places but she didn't have to die. It was the only consolation Clara could offer.

.

"Mycroft!" John called, dipping his head because of the pouring rain. Mycroft was standing resolutely underneath his umbrella, briefcase at his feet and file tucked under his arm, in front of Speedy's cafe. To top it off, a cigarette dangled from his downturned mouth. John stood in surprise; it was the strangest sight he'd seen all day. "You don't smoke," he said.

"I also don't frequent cafes," Mycroft drawled. He dropped the smouldering cigarette and twisted it into the pavement with his toe. It was extremely uncouth for Mycroft. He snapped his umbrella closed, picked up the briefcase and walked into Speedy's with John on his heels.

They seated themselves at a table, John sipping at a coffee. The plastic wallet on the table held a file with important phrases like 'RESTRICTED ACCESS - CONFIDENTIAL' stamped across it. The camera phone, the tiny object that had Sherlock in a spin for a few months was resting on top.

"This the file on Irene Adler?" John asked, nodding at the plastic sleeve.

"Closed forever. I am about to go and inform my brother – or, if you prefer, you are – that she somehow got herself into a witness protection scheme in America. New name, new identity. She will survive – and thrive – but he will never see her again."

John set down his cup. "Why would he care? He despised her at the end. Won't even mention her by name – just...'the Woman.'" Not that she was mentioned much at all in 221B. It was almost a taboo, especially when Clara was in the room.

"Is that loathing, or a salute?" Mycroft wondered aloud, his head tilting. "One of a kind; the one woman who matters."

A fleeting smirk washed over John's face. "Yep..." he said, though it was meant to prod at Mycroft.

Mycroft gave a ghastly sigh. "I pay her! You can't really _think_..."

John nodded, tapping the table. "Definitely."

"You know he's not going to do anything about it," Mycroft sighed. "He's right, sentiment it found on the losing side."

"Yeah well, he's Sherlock. What do we know about his heart?"

"Well," Mycroft's gaze grew reflective and his eyes cloudy with memory. "Initially, he wanted to be a pirate."

.

John's footsteps were heard by Sherlock a few seconds before he said, "You've clearly got news." Sherlock, of course, realised this within the first two or three squeaks of the stairs but he waited a moment so John could hear. He was fiddling with the microscope, battling boredom. "If it's about the Leeds triple murder, it was the gardener. Nobody noticed the earring."

John stopped in the doorway, the file in his hands. "Hi. Um..no-it's, err.." he cleared his throat, "It's about Irene Adler."

"Oh," Sherlock's face was unreadable, "Something happened? Has she come back?"

"Not quite," John allowed, wriggling under Sherlock's demanding stare. " I...um I just bumped into a Mycroft, downstairs. He had to take a call."

"Is she back in London?" Sherlock stood up, walking towards John.

"No, err. She's, um..." John was conflicted on what to tell his friend. The truth or the desirable lie? "She's in America," John finally said.

"America?" Sherlock was a bit taken aback.

John nodded, staring at the table. "Yep, mmhmm - Got herself on a witness protection scheme, apparently. Dunno how she swung it, but, er, well, you know."

"I know what?"

"Well, you won't be able to see her again."

Sherlock went to sit down again. "Why would I want to see her again?"

John smiled ruefully. "Didn't say you did."

Sherlock looked into the microscope, twisting dials. "Is that her file?"

"Yes. I was just about to take it back to Mycroft." John shoved it at Sherlock, wanting him to take it. This was closure, wasn't it? "Did you want to...?"

"No," Sherlock replied stiffly, not an ounce of emotions on his features. John seemed to be considering what to say. Just as he opened his mouth, to let the truth run wild, Sherlock interrupted him. A pale hand was held out coolly. "But I _will_ have the phone, though."

John frowned, clutching the file. "There's nothing on it anymore, it's been stripped."

"I know but I..." He paused, looking into the microscope but not really seeing anything. "I'll still have it."

"I have to give this back to Mycroft. You can't keep it." Sherlock's hand inched a little further. "Sherlock, I have to give this to Mycroft. It's the government's now. I couldn't even give..."

" _Please_." Giving in, John slid the phone out of the file and placed it in Sherlock's palm. "Thank you."

"Well I better take this back," John muttered. He trotted down the stairs.

Sherlock stood up and waltzed to the living room. He called up the texts Irene had sent him.

I'm not hungry, let's have dinner.

Bored in a hotel. Join me. Let's have dinner.

John's blog is HILARIOUS. I think he likes you more than I do. Let's have dinner.

I can see tower bridge and the moon from my room. Work out where I am and join me.

I saw you in the street today. You didn't see me.

You do know that hat actually suits you, don't you?

Oh for God's sake. Let's have dinner.

I like your funny hat.

I'm in Egypt talking to an idiot. Get on a plane, let's have dinner.

If you don't kiss Clara, I will.

You looked sexy on Crimewatch.

Even you have got to eat. Let's have dinner.

BBC1 right now. You'll laugh.

I'm thinking of sending you a Christmas present.

Mantelpiece.

I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.

There were so, so, so many. Then came Sherlock's one and only reply: Happy New Year, and her last text: Goodbye Mr Holmes. He smiled, tossing the phone in the and catching it. Irene was clever, but so was he. Sherlock remembered saving her, little over two months ago. She had been seconds from death, a sword swinging at her neck. Sherlock had saved her, fooled Mycroft all in one night without a scratch on him. "The Woman," he sighed. " _The_ Woman."


	37. I Need a Case!

Hey hey hey, it's not Saturday! Hope everyone is doing well - hope it's not too cold in Europe/Northern Hemisphere for you lot across the sea! It has been disgustingly hot here lately. I am so ready for Winter to finally arrive. How is it March already? Ahh! Guess what? I'm going overseas at the end of the year! Yay!

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Thanks to: ImpossibleClara9

Wiken25: True, a lot of people would argue that Sherlock wouldn't save Irene because he only has eyes on Clara. I believe that it wouldn't be true. Clara and Irene are so different. Irene is manipulative and cruel. She just wants to play the game. Clara is kind, brave and caring. Irene and Sherlock are so similar (cheekbones!). They were like two cats mirroring each other's movements. Clara represents the things Sherlock could never have/give: love, hugs and selflessness. Which makes her much more important :) what I want to say is that Irene is needed in the story but trust me, Sherlock is falling hard and fast for Clara.

Smauglock (guest): Ha, I'm terribly excited for the sequel too! Plus I cried again because I wrote a rough draft for the end end of this two fic series OH MY. The tears.

CresantShooter123: Yep, I think we all agree that if Sherlock doesn't kiss Clara, someone bloody has to!

ProudlyOslocked (Guest): Ahaha your review made me burst out laughing.

Oslock: I know! And I just told Smauglock above, I cried when writing the draft of the end end of the series. I don't know if you readers will hate me or love me.

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Just like defeating, or at least decreasing the threat of Moriarty, Baker Street was exhausted. John had his job which kept him out of the house and since Sherlock was in a state of mourning for the Irene case, they just ambled between 221A and 221B like forgotten waifs. Clara was lolling in Sherlock's armchair one morning, sipping tea lazily, when John had an epiphany.

"Clara?" His voice held a question.

"Mmm."

"Can I mention you on my blog?" He cleared his throat, turning the laptop round. "You see, I think I'm dropping in followers. It might spice things up a bit?"

Clara gaped. Her eyes flicked from him to the screen and back again."I thought you'd already mentioned me?"

"Hardly - Mycroft wanted me to keep you out of it, but if you'll let me..."

"Sherlock!" Cara suddenly screeched. The door had banged open and Sherlock stood sentinel-like in the doorway, splattered from head to toe in blood and holding a harpoon. He looked murderous and...slightly ridiculous. All this while Clara and thought he was still asleep in his bedroom.

"Well that was tedious," Sherlock muttered, clearly vexed.

John's hands had stilled an inch above the keyboard. "You went on the tube like that?"

"None of the cabs would take me."

"I'm not surprised," Clara scoffed, as Sherlock marched into his bedroom. "Don't put blood on the carpet!" She called out, half heartedly. They heard the shower creak and the pipes rattle as Sherlock cleaned himself up. When he finished, John brought up the issue of the blog again.

"I think I should put Clara on the blog," John said as Sherlock shook his wet curls. "Wouldn't do any harm plus I reckon the readers will like it - someone to connect with, you know?"

"A workaholic who looks after a crime-solving sociopath for a living?" Sherlock flicked his eyebrows, "Great idea."

"Do you really need to," Clara sighed. "It's not like I'm directly involved in the crime solving bit. I just tag along."

"Clara, you are an integral part of closing cases," Sherlock abruptly said. "Put her in the blog."

Clara's mouth fell open. "Was that a compliment?" She shut her jaw with a snap, realising she probably looked like a cod fish. Sherlock just shrugged and paced to and fro while clutching the harpoon with white knuckles. "Must be Christmas," Clara decided.

"Don't be stupid, that was last month," Sherlock grumbled. He hated Christmas. Mrs Hudson had tried to make him wear antlers.

Clara rolled her eyes. He didn't mean it but she could tell something was stressing him. He'd have out with it in a second or two. John moped off downstairs, muttering about biscuits. "I need some," Sherlock spat, his hands shaking and toes jittering. His eyes held crazed intensity "Clara - _get me some_."

"No," she told him, calmly. She crossed her arms. "Cold turkey, remember? We agreed, no matter what." Sherlock lent the harpoon against the table. His face twisted in disgust. God, he was desperate. "Anyway, you paid everyone off in a two mile radius. No one is going to sell you any."

"What a stupid idea - whose idea was that?"

Clara rolled her eyes. "Mrs Hudson's, of course."

" _Mrs Hudson!_ " Sherlock yelled at the closed door. His teeth were bared angrily.

"You're doing really well, Sherlock," Clara insisted. He hadn't had a cigarette in a two weeks. Even though it made him moody, insufferable and frantic - John and Clara applauded his efforts. It was the best he'd done, ever.

"Tell me where they are," Sherlock demanded, rummaging in the draws of the desk. Papers flew above his head and wafted to the floor. He shoved the stapler and pens onto the floor. The old newspapers fluttered to the ground. He whirled round, shooting Clara the most pleasing look he could muster - watery, puppy eyes and parted lips. " _Please_ ," he uttered, dismally.

Clara wriggled in her seat. He _knew_ , the bastard, he _knew_ this look worked on her. _Take that Irene Adler_ , she thought, knowing she just made Sherlock beg. Clara didn't let her face soften, though she urged to. "No, sorry."

"I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers," Sherlock bargained. Clara chuckled loudly as she got up and started gathering the paperwork. "It was worth a try."

Inspired, Sherlock pounced underneath the coffee table beside the unlit fireplace. He unearthed a dusty slipper and ratted around inside it. Clara gasped when he managed to find one, slightly bent, cigarette. "A-ha!" Sherlock tucked it in his mouth and reached for his lighter.

"No!" Clara shrieked and launched herself at him. She managed to pry his hand away from his dressing hand pocket and accidentally flung the lighter across the room.

They shared a look.

" _Sherlock_ ," Clara warned. His eyes sharpened. She gritted her teeth.

Clara scrambled towards the shining silver object, pushing Sherlock aside. He grabbed the back of her dress, making her yelp. Clara trudged forward anyway, eye on the prize. Sherlock went to overtake her but Clara shoved him into John's chair and they both went sprawling overboard. Clara shuffled on hands and knees towards the green couch where the lighter rested underneath. Sherlock grabbed her ankle so she kicked him in the shoulder. He brushed it off, and they both shot to their feet. Sherlock, in his desperation to reach the stupid lighter, lost his footing on the bunched up carpet and took Clara down with him again.

" _Christ_ ," Sherlock wheezed, as Clara landed on top of him. Her body obstructed his view but they both grappled for the lighter anyway. Their hands knocked together underneath the couch.

"Ooh-ooh!" Mrs Hudson had pottered in. "I was just saying to John that... _Oh dear_."

"This is not what it looks like, Mrs Hudson!" Clara squeaked, her voice muffled by embarrassment. She doubted the old lady heard a thing.

"Blimey." John stood in the doorway, flabbergasted.

" _Get off!_ " Sherlock growled because breathing was becoming an issue. Clara rolled over and before he could, snatched the lighter and held it up as evidence.

Understanding washed over Mrs Hudson and John's faces. "Sherlock, you were doing great!" John protested.

Sherlock just sneered reproachfully. Clara plucked the dusty cigarette that was pressed between his lips and pocketed it roughly. They glared daggers at each other. Point 1 to Oswald.

"Tea, anyone?" John proposed, trying to vanquish the awkward silence.

"I need something stronger than tea, seven per cent stronger," Sherlock snarled, twirling the harpoon between his fingers. Clara brushed herself off, _insufferable addict_. He aimed the harpoon at Mrs Hudson, brimming with deductions. She flinched. "You've been to see Mr Chatterjee again."

"Pardon?" Mrs Hudson rested a hand over her heart.

"Sandwich shop. New dress. But there's flour on the sleeve. You wouldn't dress like that for baking." His eyes flicked to her wrinkled hands. "Tiny traces of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know where _that_ leads, don't we?" Everyone looked appalled, for slightly different reasons. Sherlock sniffed loudly, snorting in air. "Mmm: ' _Kasbah Nights_.' Pretty racy for first thing on a Monday morning, wouldn't you agree? I've written a little blog on the identification of perfumes. It's on the website – you should look it up."

" _Please_ ," Mrs Hudson said, exasperated. At least he dropped the harpoon.

"I wouldn't pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr Chatterjee," Sherlock continued. "He's got a wife in _Doncaster_ that nobody knows about." Everyone gaped and Mrs Hudson was on the brink of having a seizure. "Well...nobody except me."

"I don't know what you're talking about, I really don't," Mrs Hudson exclaimed, angry blotches appearing on her cheeks. She stormed out of the room.

"Apologise!" John demanded as soon as Mrs Hudson was out of earshot.

"Oh John, how I envy you." Sherlock sighed and curled up in his chair, hugging his legs like a petulant child. John and Clara exchanged glances. Was this bait? Sherlock did love a good argument.

"Envy me?"

"Your mind: it's so placid, straightforward, barely used. Mine's like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad." John was so annoyed that he went back downstairs to steal food off of Mrs Hudson. Clara was left with an addict in severe withdrawal. "I need a case!" Sherlock yelled, stamping his feet.

"You just solved one!" Clara replied, matching his voice. "By harpooning a dead pig, apparently!"

Sherlock's hands drummed on the armrests. "That was this morning, when's the next one?"

"Nothing on the website?" Clara offered, trying to quench his thirst for a good murder.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and collected John's laptop from the table and shoved it into Clara's hands. He started narrating the comment on his blog as Clara scanned through it. "'Dear Mr Sherlock Holmes. I can't find Bluebell anywhere. Please please please can you help?'" His voice turned light and he flapped his hands in the air.

"Bluebell?"

He clasped the bridge of his nose. "A rabbit, Clara!"

"Oh," was all Clara could say.

"Ah, but there's more! Before Bluebell disappeared, it turned _luminous_ ..." Sherlock's voice was dripping with sarcasm. He took on the high-pitched breathless voice of a little girl as he said, "' _like a fairy_ ' according to little Kirsty; then the next morning, Bluebell was gone! Hutch still locked, no sign of a forced entry ..." He stopped in the kitchen, jaw dropping. "Ah! What am I saying? This is brilliant! Phone Lestrade. Tell him there's an escaped rabbit."

"Are you serious?" Clara's brows drew together worriedly.

"It's this or it's Cluedo," Sherlock muttered.

"Aha, _no_ ," Clara said, shutting the laptop with a snap. That terrible game where Sherlock had been so difficult Clara ended up stabbing the board to the wall. "We are _never_ playing that again."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock, that's why."

Sherlock gave her a look. "It was the only possible solution."

"It's not in the rules," Clara sang. She waltzed into the kitchen with her empty teacup.

"Then the rules are wrong!" Sherlock spat furiously. The short ring of the doorbell stopped their chatter. Clara paused. Maximum pressure for the least amount of time. Single ring. _Client_.

.

 _You need to leave_ , Sherlock was staring at her. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Clara frowned. _Excuse me?_

Henry Knight, the slightly strange but sort of nice client was sitting in their living room as a documentary on Dartmoor was playing. It showed dramatised clips of Baskerville, the research centre and spooky moors. Something killed Henry's father one dreadful night when Henry was just nine. The little Henry on the television held up a drawing of red eyed, fiery monster.

 _He likes you_ , Sherlock rolled his eyes, _it's directly affecting the interview_. Clara stifled a laugh. _Cheekbones, you cannot be serious_ , she seemed to say. Sherlock gave her a pleading look with steely eyes. _He'll exaggerate this absurd tale even more if you don't leave the room_.

Sighing, Sherlock picked up the remote and turned the television off. "So what did you see?" He asked, referring to what the Henry on the TV had said, something about knowing what killed his father.

"Oh, um...I was just about to say," he pointed at the black screen.

Sherlock scratched his jaw lazily. "I like to do my own editing."

"Yes. Sorry, yes, of course. 'Scuse me." Henry rather ungraciously pulled out a stained paper napkin and blew his nose loudly.

"In your own time," Clara said, forcing a smile.

"Yes, but quite quickly," Sherlock added.

Henry lowered the napkin and twisted it in his hands. "Do you know Dartmoor, Mr Holmes?"

"No."

"It's an amazing place. It's like nowhere else. It's sort of ... bleak but beautiful." On the last word he smiled sheepishly at Clara. Sherlock gave her a look - _whatever_ , she told him with a flick of her hair. _But I'm not leaving - you said so yourself, I'm an integral part of case solving._

 _Even if this absurd story has an ounce of truth, I'm never going to get it if he's ogling at you,_ Sherlock latched her with a glare _._

 _I. Am. Not. Leaving._ Clara quirked a brow. A challenge.

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. Clara's stomach sunk. Henry was rabbiting on about something uninteresting about the moors but Sherlock, _bloody_ Sherlock interrupted him. "Darling?" he asked, in his normal gravelly voice but somehow it sounded doting. He was looking at Clara. She cleared her throat, forcing a smile. Her eyes were filled with muted panic. Sherlock looked at his watch, his brows drawing together. "Shouldn't you be going? Night shift today, isn't it?"

John looked like he was about to have kittens. All the hope had disappeared from Henry's eyes. Clara got up, clicking her phone on and off again. "Oh, you're right. Better be off!" She walked around Sherlock's chair, trailing a hand across his shoulders and gripped a curl of his hair tightly. "Ah, but I left my wallet at work. Can I have some money for a cab?"

Sherlock didn't move until Clara gave his hair a sharp, angry tug. "Certainly," he muttered and fished out his own wallet. He went to giver her a tenner but Clara swooped in and snatched the fifty-pound note.

Clara smiled, pocketing the money. "See you later, nice meeting you Henry!" She walked down the stairs, infuriated. _Insufferable detective, know-it-all, melodramatic show off_ , Clara stalked into Speedy's and ordered a very strong cup of tea. She started texting John, knowing he would be asking a million questions. She explained that Sherlock thought her presence would persuade Henry to be more impressive in his story telling. When John texted back, Clara slammed her phone down onto the table. _He agreed_.

"Clara!"

"Doctor!"

Lanky, floppy hair and elbow patches on his blazer - The Doctor. He read her face and sat down immediately, turning grave. "Oh bollocks, what has he done now?" He folded his long legs underneath the table.

Clara flicked her hair, sniffing. " _Nothing_." She sighed heavily. "Nothing."

"Sunsets? Aliens?"

Clara scrunched her nose. She wasn't feeling it today, the whole space adventure thing. She was about to answer when the teenage girl, who waitressed at the cafe came up to her. "Are you...Clara, from Dr Watson's blog? I mean, I've seen you and Dr Watson and Sherlock Holmes in here sometimes and I just read the new blog post and..." The girl trailed off her cheeks blooming like two red tomatoes.

Clara gaped. That was quick. "Um, yeah...I guess I am."

The girl smiled and the piercing in her lip curled upwards. "Can I have a photograph?" She pulled out a tatty smartphone from her apron,

The Doctor straightened his bowtie - worried and impressed. A confusing expression. "Okay," Clara said. The girl leaned down and held the phone in front of their faces. Clara smiled, albeit awkwardly. The girl thanked her and went to hide behind the coffee machine.

The Doctor fiddled with his bow tie, a smile playing on his features. "Am I in the presence of royalty?"

Clara swatted him halfheartedly. "Can I borrow your ID badge?"

The Doctor frowned. It was a question that came out of the blue. "Why?"

Clara's shoulders shifted up and down. She held out her hand. "To wreck havoc?" She offered. The Doctor raised a delicate eyebrow. Clara exhaled, looking away. "I just want to annoy Mycroft, okay?"

His eyes sharpened and his mouth drew into a thin line. "Fine." Clara's glare was too much for him. He ratted inside his jacket and slapped the leather pocket on her palm. "But only because I like you."

Clara grinned and pocketed it. This would be fun. She picked up her phone as it blipped. Text from John. Wow. They were accepting the case - the case Henry Knight had scuttled to 221B about. They were going to Dartmoor! Wherever that was. Clara glanced up. "Hey, um, Doctor?" The beginning of a favour graced her words. The Doctor frowned. He wasn't a taxi service. But those pleading brown eyes...


	38. High Heels

Alrigh' bruv?

It's been a while but hey, what can I say? I was busy as a bee!

Check out my Tumblr: **soufflesburning** it's complete and utter oslock trash :)

Why haven't I used Tumblr before? It's _magical_.

* * *

Can you guess who I'm talking about in the title?

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Thanks to: SongSister101, KhaosDeath, redrosebird, All of Tenrose, morikourahara, 1823LesAmis

Smauglock (guest): Haha, I totally wish I was in England I need the cold! It got chilly last night and it was so nice to curl up and read a book underneath a doona. *frowns from spot on the floor (amongst the dust bunnies). Places laptop on knees and flicks hair and cracks fingers.* "You're so _needy_." *Smirks, then starts typing rapidly*.

Oslock: Oh my goodness YES! That scene in Tangled - how fitting! Haha so SSASH will end at the Reichenbach Fall (end of season 2) and the next fic (title not yet revealed) will be starting from season 3-ish. Tears were from sorrow at times but also from sad laughter.

The Best Guesst: Thank-you for your review!

ImpossibleClara9: Oh, I'm so glad you're enjoying this!

CresantShooter123: JUST YOU WAIT

Pri-Chan 1410: Nothing will stop Clara doing what she wants :)

ProudlOslocked (guest): Ha! I literally just got your review about ten minutes before I was about to post this! And thank-you so much because now my brain is whirling with ideas!

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Clara said she would meet them at the facility - the mysterious, Baskerville army base that was shrouded in outlandish rumours. She had packed her bags quickly before rushing back into her flat. The TARDIS was in her bedroom. Not exactly surprising, but if Sherlock stumbled in here...Clara shuddered. She knocked on the doors and they squeaked open. "Clara!" The Doctor cried, happily. He raced back to the consul. "A number, any number - just give me a number," he demanded, mischief written all over his face.

Clara grinned and thought for a minute."One thousand, eight hundred and...ninety three."

The Doctor swivelled some knobs and pushed a load of buttons. "Side trip?" He proposed. "This is a _time_ machine."

Clara squirmed but her smile for the better of her. "Geronimo?" She said, arching an eyebrow.

"London 1893, here we come!" He slammed down the lever. "Geronimo!"

.

Long story short, it wasn't London 1893, but rather _Scotland_ 1893\. Clara was glad to arrive in Dartmoor without the constant idiocy of Strax - the walking potato - overshadowing her every step. Even Sherlock could at least recognise her gender. Clara was at the gates into the Baskerville research lab, shrouded in secrecy. A young and outgoing man, of some sort of military rank greeted her sternly at the barred gates. Clara smiled and waved off the cab. She wasn't stupid enough to make the Doctor park the TARDIS at the front gates. She caught a cab from Dartmoor and left her bags at the local inn. The boyish soldier was nice enough as Clara showed him the ID badge. The stolen ID badge. The _psychic_ ID badge. He looked at it, seemed impressed and scanned it under a machine. Clara plastered a nonchalant smile on her face as she adjusted her blazer, handbag and rather uncomfortable set of black heels. At least she _felt_ important. "What is the nature of your visit, Doctor..." Clara smirked slightly, "Oswald...?"

"UNIT sent me - mandatory inspection," she replied promptly. Clara propped her sunglasses on her head. "Any chance there's a Holmes running around here? I told him I wouldn't be late but..." Clara frowned at her watch, "I'm afraid I might be." She beamed at the young soldier. "Fancy helping out a damsel in distress?" No more words were needed as Clara was personally escorted towards the facility.

Clara spied the boy's getting out of their massive car. "Oh, so sorry!" She called out, waving briskly. "Cabs are endangered here, I think!"

"Clara!" John exclaimed. "So um..." he trailed off lost. Clara trotted towards them as fast as she could.

"Glad you could join us," Sherlock finished.

Clara patted the soldier's arm. "I had a fine guide." He blushed and ducked his head. He wandered away, clearly dismissed. A jeep pulled up sharply in front of them and another young soldier jumped out.

"You look different," Sherlock murmured, his voice whispering by her ear.

"Nothing wrong with a bit of theatrics," Clara replied smoothly even though her feet ached. She started when Sherlock grabbed her hand and shoved something small into her palm.

"Play along - Henry Knight guessed so now we have to keep up the act. We met in London, through friends and workmates. Yes, we share a flat. I asked you 6 months ago, you said yes. Had to get the rings resized." All of this was hurriedly muttered to her, blindingly fast by Sherlock just as the grave faced soldier was walking towards them. Sherlock only finished when the soldier's boots crunched on the gravel in front of them.

"What is it? Are we in trouble?" The fresh faced soldier was demanding and forthright.

"Are we in trouble, _ma'am_ ," Clara corrected, gritting her teeth. She glared at the soldier and tutted disapprovingly. This was rather fun.

"Yes ma'am. Sorry, ma'am." Nevertheless, he still blocked their path.

"Were you not expecting us?" Clara prodded, nose in the air. John was staring at her in silent awe.

"Your ID showed up straight away, Doctor Oswald. Corporal Lyons, security," he introduced himself briefly. "Is there something wrong, ma'am?"

Clara frowned deeply, staring down her nose. The heels gave her a lot more confidence than she first believed. It was magical what a dash of red lipstick and a new pair of shoes could do to a person. "Well, I hope not, Corporal, I hope not," she seethed, a crease appearing between her brows.

"It's just we don't get inspected here, you see, ma'am. It just doesn't happen."

"Ever heard of a spot check?" Sherlock interrupted, his tone clipped and short.

Clara smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Clearly you've never encountered UNIT," she chuckled. Her smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Lyons, I don't think you are quite grappling the fact that we are here on very important business and I would rather do a little less _chit chat_ and a tad more er, _business_." Clara turned to John. "Captain John Watson, of the, um,"

"Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," John filled in helpfully. He flashed his badge briefly.

"Is highly regarded in the defence force, and I would be ashamed if you didn't know Mr Holmes here," Clara gestured to Sherlock, rolling her eyes for effect, "And let's just say that if you've never heard of _me_ , then you've never heard of the British Government." Clara finished on a powerful note and held up the psychic paper. Lyons swallowed heavily, sweat beaded at his temples.

"Sir. Major Barrymore won't be pleased, ma'am and sirs. He'll want to see you all."

Clara heaved a heavy sigh. She was about to go on another dramatic spiel when John butted in. "I'm afraid we won't have time for that. We'll need the full tour right away. Carry on." Lyons hesitated. He looked his boots. John tilted his head. "That's an order, Corporal."

"Yes, sir."

Clara and Sherlock shared a secret smirk. "Nice touch," Sherlock whispered.

"I haven't pulled rank in ages," John breathed, pleasure rippling across his features.

"Enjoy it?"

"Oh yeah."

Lyons led them through a maze of corridors where they frequently had to swipe their cards, or in Clara's case, psychic paper. When she swiped her badge, a simple, slightly tarnished gold band flashed on her left hand. _Just because Cheekbones had to be a protective, dramatic prick in front of a client_. Clara's high heels clacked on the hard floors as they entered the labs. Scientists in thick white lab coats were zipping round, holding sample jars and folders. A stack of cages were set in the middle of the room. Clara jumped, bumbling into Sherlock as a monkey shrieked and threw its body against the bars. Warm hands brushed her shoulders briefly until she was right on her feet. "Any ever escape?" Clara asked, worry seeping into her tone.

"They'd have to know how to use that lift, ma'am. We're not breeding them _that_ clever."

"Unless they have help," Sherlock muttered bitterly.

A scientist, with grey hair and too many teeth when he smiled, dragged his face mask down and grinned as he walked up to them. "Ah, and you are?" He asked, looking at the three.

"I'm just showing Doctor Oswald and these two gentlemen around, Doctor Frankland," Lyons provided, stiffly.

"Ah, new faces, huh? Nice. Careful you don't get stuck here, though. I only came to fix a tap!"

John and Clara laughed politely at his joke. They watched him enter the lift at the end of the large hall. "How far does that lift go?" John asked, frowning.

"Quite a ways, sir."

"Mmmhmm, and what's down there?"

"Well we have to keep the bin somewhere, sir." Lyons gestured down an adjoining wing. "Please, this way."

Stainless steel benches were littered around the room. Scientists were prodding animals and holding up jars of suspicious serums up to the light. Clara grimaced. The heels were getting rather painful. Sherlock flashed her a smirk, so she swatted him roughly. Of course he could tell. Lyons led them towards a woman, dressed in the mandatory lab coat and latex gloves. "Doctor Stapleton," Lyons greeted. She handed a monkey to another scientist and flicked her short hair out of her eyes.

" _Stapleton_ ," Sherlock breathed, eyes sparking.

"Yes?" Dr Stapleton uttered, eyes flicking between the three. "Who is this?"

"Priority Ultra, ma'am. Orders from on high. An inspection."

Stapleton frowned, her chin jutting back. "Really?"

"We're to be accorded every courtesy, Doctor Stapleton. What's your role at Baskerville?" Sherlock asked, his back tightening.

Stapleton laughed disbelievingly. She glanced at Lyons and snorted again. Clara tilted her head. "Er, accorded _every_ courtesy, isn't that the idea?" Clara spoke as though she was speaking to a confused child.

"I'm not free to say. Official secrets." Stapleton crossed her arms. Sherlock was about to argue when Clara flicked her badge up and pushed it into Stapleton's vision. She swallowed thickly, her eyes shuttering in surprise. She cleared her throat. "Well, why didn't you just say?" She looked at the ground, mortified. "I have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. I like to mix things up – genes, mostly; now and again actual fingers." She smiled sheepishly. " _Ma'am_ ," she added, sobering her tone.

"Stapleton. I knew I knew your name!" Sherlock's eyes turned glassy as he pulled back strings of memory.

"I doubt it," Stapleton quipped, clearly not as impressed with him as she was with Clara.

"People say there's no such thing as coincidence. What dull lives they must lead." He scribbled something into his notebook and held it up. ' _BLUEBELL_ ' was written in large capital letters across the page. Clara frowned. _What? The rabbit?_

"Have you been talking to my daughter?" Stapleton demanded.

"Why did Bluebell have to _die_ , Doctor Stapleton?"

"The rabbit?!" Clara murmured, bewildered as a lost deer.

"Disappeared from inside a locked hutch, which was always suggestive."

Stapleton just stared at him blankly.

"The _rabbit?_ " Clara repeated.

"Clearly an inside job," Sherlock added, slipping the notebook back into his coat pocket.

"Oh, you reckon?" Stapleton snapped defensively.

Sherlock smiled evilly. "Why? Because it glowed in the dark."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Who are you?" She stepped back, hands across her chest.

"Doctor Stapleton, I would like to remind you who exactly _I_ am, and how much power I have. This is my," Clara choked on the word. She swallowed thickly and continued, but she struggled to regain the same vigour. "Husband, as well as my colleague, so I wouldn't be so disrespectful, Doctor."

"I, I-I uh..."

Sherlock jabbed Clara in the side. They were standing so close no one could tell. "I think we've seen enough for today, corporal," Clara finished, her words bitter. "Thank you for your cooperation."

Clara turned on her heel, Sherlock right beside her and Stapleton calling after them. "Did we just break into a military base to investigate a rabbit?" Clara hissed, glaring at Sherlock.

"What the hell is with this rabbit?" John demanded in a hushed whisper, jogging to keep up.

Sherlock blatantly ignored them and flipped out his phone. "Twenty-three minutes; Mycroft is getting slow."

They reached the lifts, Lyons now caught up with them and they all, swiped their cards. Doctor Frankland, the smiling white coat gave them a nonchalant grin. "Hello, again." Sherlock eyed him suspiciously as they entered.

When the doors opened again, a very angry bearded officer was glaring at them with raged eyes. Lyons stuttered something incomprehensible. "This is bloody outrageous. Why wasn't I told?"

"Major Barrymore, is it?" John stepped forward offering his hand. Barrymore ignored the gesture. "We're very impressed, aren't we Mr Holmes, and," He cleared his throat, "Ma'am."

"Deeply, hugely," Sherlock muttered. He grabbed Clara's hand and walked straight past Barrymore. "Keep walking," he murmured.

"The whole point of Baskerville was to eliminate this kind of bureaucratic nonsense," Barrymore exclaimed, "Inspections?!

"Terribly sorry, Major," Clara called. "New policy. Can't remain unmonitored forever. Goodness knows _what_ you'd get up to."

"Sir!" Lyons suddenly exclaimed. He had ducked in and out of a room and then slammed an emergency button in the wall with the palm of his hand. Lights flashed and alarms blared. Clara gripped Sherlock's hand.

"ID unauthorised, sir. I've just had a call. Doctor Oswald is still authorised, however."

Barrymore turned to Sherlock and john, hands on hips. A vein pulsed on his temple. "Who are you?"

"This has to be a mistake, Major," Clara said, a tad breathlessly. "I _know_ these gentlemen and-"

Lyons handed Barrymore Sherlock's stolen identification card. "Clearly not Mycroft Holmes," Barrymore spat. His eyes flicked from the card to Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes and pulled out a notebook. He started to make a rough notation. "Computer error, Major. It'll all have to go in the report."

Clara nodded assertively. "Make sure UNIT hears directly about this, Captain Watson," she ordered.

John blanched, surprised. But he regained his composure. "Of course, ma'am."

"What the hell's going on?!" shouted Barrymore, frightening the words out of Clara's mouth. Sherlock squeezed her hand. How were they still holding hands?

"It's all right, Major. I know _exactly_ who these gentlemen are."

The party turned around. Doctor Frankland was there, looking thoughtful. Clara had forgotten about him. She was too worried about her boys. Suddenly, the heels felt silly and the whole bravado of the scheme seemed transparent. The three held their breath. Clara was certain they'd lost.

"You do?" Barrymore seemed doubtful.

Frankland stepped forward, scratching the back of his neck as he considered Sherlock. "Yeah. I'm getting a little slow on faces but Mr Holmes here isn't someone I expected to show up in this place."

This was it. They were dead meat. Barrymore would eat them for lunch. Sherlock stuttered, "Ah, well..."

Frankland, surprisingly, offered his hand. "Good to see you again, Mycroft." Clara remembered to breathe as Sherlock let go of her hand and shook Frankland's. The blood rushed to her fingers, making her realise just how tightly Sherlock had been holding it. "I had the honour of meeting Mr Holmes at the W.H.O. conference in..." He tapped his chin, pretending to think. "...Brussels, was it?"

"Vienna," Sherlock corrected.

"Vienna, that's it," Frankland chuckled. "Though I can't say I had the pleasure of meeting your wife!" His eyes flashed over the identical gold bands.

Clara smiled, forcing herself to look happy - not terrified. "Well, I hope it's a pleasure now, Doctor Frankland," she said breezily, shaking his hand.

Frankland turned to Barrymore, perfectly at ease. "This is Mr Mycroft Holmes, Major. There's obviously been a mistake."

Barrymore nodded stiffly and Lyons turned off the alarms. "On your head be it," he muttered and strode out of the room.

"I'll see them out, Corporal," Frankland decided, dismissing Lyons.

They walked down the hall, still not sure if they had got away clean. The crisp, winter's air greeted them outside and the gravel crunched beneath their shoes. "Thank you," Sherlock said, turning to Frankland.

"This is about Henry Knight, isn't it?" He took their silence as an answer. "I thought so. I knew he wanted help but I didn't realise he was going to contact Sherlock Holmes!" Sherlock grimaced and Clara stifled a grin. "Oh, don't worry. I know who you really are. I'm never off your website. Thought you'd be wearing the hat, though."

"Not my hat," Sherlock growled underneath his breath. Clara hid her smile behind her hands.

Frankland had a bounce in his step as he spoke to John. "I hardly recognise him without the hat!"

" _Wasn't my hat_."

"I love the blog too, Doctor Watson."

John appeared to be genuinely pleased. "Oh, cheers!"

"The, er, the Pink thing..." Frankland clicked his fingers, trying to remember. "...and the aluminium crutch! Loved it!" He turned to Clara, who seemed a tad shocked. "Oh and I see you're finally being mentioned! Though I never would have guessed about the..." He pointed at her hand.

Sherlock and Clara stopped, sharing a look. "No, no, no..."

"This wasn't, um..."

"It's just a..."

John spoke loudly over the top of them. He looked at Frankland as though what he was sharing was extremely confidential. "It's all a bit hushed up, if you know what I mean..." He smiled briefly, "Don't want _everything_ online."

"Oh! Right. Of course, very sensible." Frankland nodded approvingly. His eyes flickered between Clara and Sherlock's stunned faces.

Sherlock recovered quickly, clearing his throat. "You know Henry Knight?" He still seemed unreasonably shaken up.

Frankland frowned, his eyes dulled quickly. "Well, I knew his dad better. He had all sorts of mad theories about this place. Still, he was a good friend." He twisted to and fro, as if he could physically avoid the change in subject. "Listen - I can't talk now," he gritted his teeth as they spied Major Barrymore standing outside the main facility. He reached into his lab coat and pulled out a small business card. "Here's my, er, cell number. If I could help with Henry, give me a call."

He handed the card to Clara, who pocketed it with a smile. "Doctor Frankland, I never did get to ask," she stepped forward, pulling a strand of hair behind her ear that had wafted away in the gathering wind. "What exactly do you do here?"

Frankland laughed cheerfully, grinning at his shoes. "Oh, Doctor Oswald - believe me, I would love to tell you but..." he shrugged, "Then I'd have to kill you. All of you."

"That would be tremendously ambitious of you," Sherlock replied, interrupting Clara's answer.

Clara gave him a look, before turning back to Frankland. "I am practically the Government, you know?" she quipped, making the scientist chuckle.

"As you keep reminding us," John sighed.

"Tell me about Doctor Stapleton," Sherlock said, steering the conversation back to the case.

Frankland shrugged as if there wasn't much to say. "I'd never speak ill of a colleague," he said.

"Yet you'd speak well of one, which you're clearly omitting to do."

Frankland wasn't surprised by this reply. "I do seem to be, don't I?"

Clara patted Sherlock's shoulder, a silent signal to leave. "It's been a pleasure, Doctor," Clara said, waving him off. "We'll be in touch."

"Anytime."

They trotted towards the land rover, gravel crunching beneath their feet. Thunderclouds rolled above them, threatening to burst. "What was all that about the rabbit?" John demanded, opening the door to the passenger seat so Clara could climb in.

Or _jump_ , as cars such as this one didn't accommodate her short stature. Sherlock and Clara latched eyes for a second, a whole conversation zipping between them. A brief smile flickered across Sherlock's features as he pulled his coat tighter around himself, flicking the collar up in the process.

John rolled his eyes so heavily that they could have looked into his own brain. "Oh, please, can we not do this, this time?"

"Do what?" Sherlock grumbled, popping the door handle.

"You being all mysterious with your cheekbones and silent conversations and turning your coat collar up so you look cool," John ranted, climbing into his own seat. Sherlock was frozen outside the car, half way into the motion of getting into the driver's seat. Clara had her seat belt in her hands as she held in a laugh.

Sherlock was lost for words with the most disconcerted look on his face. "...I-I don't do that."

"Yeah, you do," Clara and John both blurted.


	39. I'm Not Your Friend, Clara

Oooh, look at his quick update - aren't I good?

Thanks to: Joyful Jude, 502blom, phoenix1522 and littlesimmer2

The Best Guesst: Yes! Amen to that - Clara is always sassy and awesome.

Pri-Chan 1410: Thank you so much!

Guest: I adore writing the marriage facade. It's sooo much fun.

Smauglock: Florida?! Oh my goodness I am so jealous. Plus Harry Potter World? Um, can you take me? This Slytherin right here is desperate for some butterbeer. Have fun! By the way, this fic is on wattpad as well. Haha, I am very sassy and smug so watch out! I guess that's why I love these characters so much. To be honest, Sherlock would find me incredibly annoying.

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"You shouldn't have come."

"Stop being ridiculous about this, let's just get the job done."

"The client will exaggerate, show off, dramatise every detail; we need to deal with the facts."

Clara crossed her arms. The three were loitering on the doorstep to Henry Knight's ginormous house. Sherlock and Clara were both frowning at each other. With the heels on, Clara didn't have to tilt her head up as much.

"And you're saying that _you_ don't _exaggerate_ and _show off_ or _dramatise every itty-bitty detail?_ " She raised an eyebrow archly.

"Well, I-I…"

"That's what I thought." Clara pressed the buzzer forcefully. "Shall we just get on with it, eh?"

Henry opened the door, looking dismal in his worn out jeans and a faded cardigan. Clara smiled. His ears went pink. "Hi."

"Hey!" Clara said brightly, "Can we come in?"

"Yeah, yeah, course. Come in."

Sherlock scoffed silently. Clara turned round and mouthed " _Behave!_ " before following Henry. Henry's house was a large old-fashioned glass conservatory with a modern two storey connection added on, to join it with another stone building nearby. There were high ceilings and minimalist art and sky lights dropping geometric patterns on the floor.

"This is, uh…" John started, absorbing the posh atmosphere, "Are you, um…" He paused, captivated by a brushed chrome ceiling light in a shape of a flower, "...rich?"

"Yeah," Henry said, scratching the back of his head and glancing at Clara.

"Right," John breathed, as they entered the opulent kitchen. Sherlock gave him a dark look as they sat down on the kitchen stools.

"What's up, Henry?" Clara asked with sad eyes. Henry dithered around, getting coffee cups and instant coffee sachets. He clicked the kettle on and listened to it boil.

"It's-it's, just a couple of words…" He pushed the sugar bowl round and round on the smooth marble bench. "It's what I keep seeing. 'Liberty'..."

"Liberty," John repeated, pencilling it down in his notebook.

Henry looked up, confused and fearful. "'Liberty' and… 'in'. That's just that." He poured their coffee and put the jug of milk back into the fridge.

They grabbed their cups, Sherlock plops two sugar lumps in his and put three in Clara's. She gave him a look. He just shrugged, _what?_ Her lips quirked, _just rather domestic of you_. Sherlock jutted his chin back, _it's all part of the facade_. Clara raised her eyebrows at him. _Really?_

They thought for a minute, puzzled by the strange words. Clara sipped her coffee, nearly going crosseyed trying to figure it out.

"'Liberty in Death', isn't that an expression? The only true freedom," Sherlock pondered.

"What now, then?" Henry asked. He wanted answers. He wanted to know why his father had to die.

"Sherlock's got a plan," Clara exclaimed, smiling at Sherlock expectantly.

He stuttered for a minute. "Ah, yes. Yes. A plan, I've got a plan."

"Right," Henry said, nodding.

"We take you back out onto the moor…"

"Okay…"

"...and see if anything attacks you."

"What?!" John exclaimed.

 _Sherlock what the hell_ , Clara's mouth fell open. _That's a rubbish plan_.

"That should bring things to a head," he shrugged, gulping down coffee.

"At night?" Henry blanched. "You want me to go out there at night."

"Mmm. Yes."

"Sherlock!" Clara said, when he wouldn't listen to her eyes.

"Got any better ideas?" He asked, matching her glare.

"That's not a plan!"

"Listen," he set down his cup. "If there is a monster out there, Clara, there's only one thing to do: find out where it lives." He looked around at the gathering and smiled nonchalantly. It didn't exactly rouse their spirits.

.

Night was falling fast, the sun was dropping behind the horizon like it was running away from the approaching darkness. Sherlock was leading the pack, flashlight wafting over the tangle of bushes and the wet muddy ground. His feet squished into the stomach of the moors and he turned, seeing that Clara had switched her heels for a practical pair of bright red wellies. She didn't realise he was watching, but she squelched through the mud with a disgusted frown. Sherlock turned back, his lips twisting with amusement. They were a long way from London.

"Sherlock," she breathed, catching up with him, her short legs pumping. She grabbed his arm to steady herself. Sherlock liked that. She trusted him to stop her falling. He shook the thoughts from his head, baffled that he had just realised this now. Her torch wobbled as she tried to keep up with his pace. "Sherlock, are we actually going to find the monster?"

"Do you believe in monsters?"

A strange emotion washed over her face. It was new, different, not the usual Clara. "I don't know, maybe," she told him, staring into the distance. They were walking along a fenceline, one side was the boggy marsh, on the other was a minefield. It would look like a normal paddock if it weren't for the continuous warning signs and barbed wire slinking over the dead grass.

Clara shivered and she self-consciously stepped closer to Sherlock.

Henry caught up with them, the fear plain in his frightened breath.

"Met a friend of yours," Sherlock said, pushing past a tree branch. He held it up for Clara but let it go as soon as she passed.

Henry dodged but managed to get clipped in the shoulder. "What?"

"Doctor Frankland," Sherlock explained.

"Oh, yeah, Bob. Yeah."

"Seems pretty concerned about you."

"He's a worrier - bless him," Henry said, memory clinging to his words. "He was very kind to me when I came back."

"He knew your father."

"Yeah."

"But he works at Baskerville, didn't your dad have a problem with that?" Sherlock prodded.

"Well, mates are mates," Henry replied, "I mean, look at you and Clara."

Sherlock gave Henry a look. "What about us," he asked defensively.

"Well, Clara's a pretty straight forward, nice person, and you're…"

Sherlock gave him such an angry expression that Henry trailed off worriedly. "Married, not mates," Sherlock corrected with a passive aggressive smile. Clara swatted him on the shoulder when Henry wasn't looking.

"They agreed never to talk about work," Henry sighed, "Uncle Bob and my dad."

The group stopped at a steep drop off. Dewers Hollow. It was dark void and they could just see the wet rotting leaves at the bottom. Sherlock shined his torch across the ground, trying to find a way down. Henry, Sherlock and Clara started sliding down the bank of the Hollow. Clara bumbled into Sherlock repeatedly as he wellies slipped on the mud. She held tight onto the back of his coat until they made it down into the bowels of the Hollow.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the paw prints everywhere. Clara could stand in one, her hands clasping into sweaty fists as they realised how big this monster would be. "Sherlock - where's John?" Clara whispered, looking around the Hollow.

A long, anguished howl filled the night. Sherlock gravitated towards Clara, as if his presence could somehow protect her. Henry was still halfway down the hill, but he stopped and stared. Clara was pointing her torch at the beast, and their faces filled with horror. Clara dropped her torch and wrapped her hand around Sherlock's coat lapel.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, _didyouseethat?_ " Henry was running down the hill and staring at them, demanding clarification.

Sherlock's face was white and chiselled as a marble statue. "Sherlock, Sherlock, look at me, look at me," Clara whispered, trying to bring Sherlock back to the present. This scared her, this reminded her of the rare times she would have to throw the needle to the corner of the room, and turn him over to stop him choking on his own vomit and ring the ambulance. "It's okay, it's okay…"

But it wasn't okay. Clara knew this as she held his face, trying to make him stop staring at the rim of the Hollow. They saw a real monster. As big as a car with black fur standing on edge and the same red glowing eyes that Henry had described. Sherlock didn't deal with monsters, he dealt with criminals and psychopaths and drug addicts. Clara was the one who dealt with monsters, with aliens and space cowboys and Daleks. But Sherlock didn't know this and for once in her life she felt like the most prepared person in the room.

"Sherlock, let's go. Let's find John. We have to find John," She told him, giving him a purpose. She let go of his coat lapels and grabbed his hand.

They ran out of the hollow and stumbled into John. "Did you hear that howl?"

Clara stopped, mouth parted to give a rushed explanation. "We saw it!" Henry blurted.

But Sherlock pulled her to the side and they stormed past him. "I didn't see anything," Sherlock growled and they powered through the woods.

They ended up at the inn. John went back to Henry's flat to calm him down. It was just Sherlock and Clara staring at the fireplace. Clara was confused and frustrated and completely lost. "Henry is right," she murmured. It was the only explanation.

Sherlock's jaw was jammed shut and his eyes were rimmed with red. He was fighting inside himself. "A gigantic hound," he choked.

Clara shook her head, her hair mussed with leaves and sweat. "No, no, no, it's not - it can't be. We have to be rational and stick to the facts." Travelling in the TARDIS involved alien monsters. Detective life did not mix with Space life. It wasn't possible.

"Once you've ruled out the impossible, whatever remains - however improbable - must be true," he said softly. He picked up a drink from the table and his hand shook, sloshing the whisky round. "Body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? _Emotions_." He slammed the glass down on the table. "The grit on the lense, fly in the ointment."

"Hey, hey, hey," Clara got up and kneeled on the carpet in front of him, hands on his knees. "Calm down, Spock. Just, take it easy."

Sherlock looked at her, eyes glassy with frightened tears. "You can't help me, Clara."

"It's my job," she whispered, desperately.

" _There is nothing wrong with me_!" he yelled, the words clawing up his throat and flying out like spitfire. " _Do you understand?_ " The patrons at the pub turned around to stare. Clara ignored them.

"Sherlock, shut up," She hissed. "I'm scared, I am so, so scared. I can see you looking at me like that, asking me why I don't look scared, eh? Yeah I know you Cheekbones, you're like an open book - I don't care what the others say, you're not a robot or a cyborg. Maybe I'm just used to monsters. No, there isn't anything wrong with you, you're having a panic attack. Everybody has panic attacks. So I want you to _calm down_." There was a tear tracking down her face but only Sherlock noticed it. He didn't say anything but his chest was heaving and sweat was pooling in the dip of his collar bone. "Deduce something about me," she demanded.

"What?"

"Just do it, Cheekbones."

"You're having a panic attack too," He said, eyes shuttering. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"No, this is exactly what we should be doing. What gives it away?"

"Your pulse," He looked at her hands on his knees, "It's higher than normal. You're crying, you can't catch your breath and you're trying to distract yourself from the image of the hound."

"What did I have for breakfast?"

" _I don't know_."

" _Yes, you do_."

"There was a bit of porridge on your collar but you rubbed it off, not enough though because there's a bit on an imprint. You mustn't have realised straight away because obviously it had hardened before you picked it off. Plus you like porridge for breakfast anyway."

"With what on top?"

"Honey and blueberries."

"How do you know that?" She demanded, pushing him to focus, to get out of the dream.

"Because you _like_ honey and blueberries."

"What else?" She stared at him with those big brown eyes. "C'mon, Cheekbones."

"You haven't called you dad in a while, you don't want to either," He watched her expression, the subtle yet tell-tale signs which fueled his thoughts. "Last time you fought - you won't tell him what your job is or where you live, oh! It's both, why? Scared to show off your neighbour? Of course you are, it's embarrassing trying to babysit a full grown man, psych him out of panic attacks and yank needles out of his arms."

Clara slunk backwards, hand on her own armchair. "Sherlock, stop it." Why was he so angry at her? "What about those people over there, deduce them."

He was frantic and feverous, taking out his pain and fear on her. Clara swallowed, reminding herself that she had welcomed it. This was supposed to help. But it felt like he was sinking a javelin into her stomach.

"Oh, _touchy_ , don't worry I'll make sure you don't have to schedule your suicide watch around any important dates," he spat. "Do you know why Mycroft hired you? He particularly looked for someone who wasn't going anywhere in life. No job, no close family, no friends. Really convenient that you lived right next door. Now that I think of it, the accidental skyping was probably Mycroft anyway... "

"I have friends," Clara told him, losing her confidence from before. "I have a family."

Sherlock scoffed, looking away. "I'm not your friend, Clara. _I don't have friends_."

Clara stood up, her shoulders bristling. " _Fuck off_ ," she hissed and strode away.


	40. Labrats

Oh my goodness, you guys (1) are freaking out and (2) are about to slap Sherlock into the next dimension. Sorry for such a long wait, I've been snowed under with work. Plus, I'm procrastinating by writing - yay!

* * *

Thanks to: karmankaiser, nashikin43, Caeci, TVD-klaroline-love

S02blom: yeah I know that John gets excluded a bit but...It is an oslock story :)

Pri-Chan 1410: Thank you! And now Sherlock has to fix his mess…

CresantShooter123: Hahaha same, he is can be so nasty.

The Best Guesst: Haha, Sherlock is a git but at least he's an adorable one, am I right?

Mermaid1108: Ha - space-intelligence, I love the phrasing!

ProudlyOslocked (guest): Oh my goodness, I sort of sorry, but sort of not at the same time! You're in a long line to kill Sherlock right now.

Oslock: I hope your exams went well! I'm sure you did great!

OrangeSunset1701: I am so glad you like this fanfic!

Smauglock: Yet again, you're reviews never fail to make me smile. Soo jealous about the Malfoy shirt btw.

* * *

The next day, they were left with the repercussions of the night before. John had tried to slyly interview Henry's pretty therapist and failed miserably, U.M.Q.R.A, the morse code he had picked up on the hound hunting evening had also led to a dead end. Clara hadn't gone up to her bedroom to cry her eyes out, she'd rung the Doctor - asking difficult questions.

"Are the humans treating you nicely?" The Doctor had asked as soon as she had said hello.

Clara sighed into the receiver. "I can look after myself, Doctor - anyway, have you ever encountered a massive dog before?"

"A what?"

"A massive hound with red eyes and ashen fur?" She could hear the TARDIS whirring in the background as the Doctor pushed some buttons. "Ring any bells?"

"The bells are not ringing - unless you count Oods, but they're more tentically than woolly."

Clara shook her head, no idea what the Doctor was on about. "Thanks!" She told him brightly, before hanging up.

Sherlock was at Henry's house, probably being an insensitive detective. Henry was fragile, his childhood trauma had left him a troubled man. It was impossible not to pity him. Clara found herself at the cemetery. Dartmoor was a lovely place, rolling hills and dewy grass. The quaint little village was a curious town with lots of yapping jack russells and little old ladies on walkers. The cemetery was neat and tidy, accompanying the equally small church. Clara trailed a hand along the lichen ridden walls and trenched over the bright moss.

"Did John get anywhere with the morse code?"

Clara didn't turn around, she knew Sherlock's voice when she heard it. "I don't know," Clara told him with false incredulous, "Why don't you ask him yourself?" She stepped down from the ledge of the war memorial and starting walking down the uneven steps to the entrance gate.

"What about the therapist - Louise Mortimer? Anything come of that?"

Clara didn't answer and struggled with the silly bolted lock on the wrought iron gate. Sherlock caught up with her quickly, his deft feet making Clara's stumbling footsteps down the steps look ridiculous. "Clara," he sighed. She fixed her eyes on the gate, knowing without looking that he was rolling his eyes.

" _I'm fine_ ," she hissed, jiggling the lock. "Go badger someone else."

"No, wait. What happened last night...Something happened to me; something I've not really experienced before…"

"Fear is nothing to be ashamed of," Clara protested, looking up at him with pleading eyes.

"It wasn't just that…" He swallowed. Clara watched as he gently removed her rigid hands from the rusted lock. He shook it and manage to shunt the bolt along the barrel, clicking the gate open. "I felt doubt, for the first time. I've always been able to trust my own senses, the evidence of my own eyes, until last night."

Clara frowned and twisted on her feet, stalking down the path, her skirt flapping in the breeze. "Listen, Clara, what I said last night…" She didn't look back and his feet slapped on the pavement behind her.

"Clara," he grabbed her arm, spinning her around. "I don't have friends." Clara jammed her jaw shut and refused to look at him. "I've just got one."

Clara stared at him, tilting her head and swallowing disappointment. "Yes, I know. John's you're best friend. You _pal_." Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the word. "So what does that make me? Just your supervisor."

"Do you want to have dinner?" Sherlock asked abruptly. Her mouth fell open like a cod fish.

"Now?" Clara narrowed his eyes at him. "It's eleven o'clock in the morning."

"Right," Sherlock muttered, pressing his lips together in a flat line.

Clara chuckled. "Why?" She watched him carefully, amused.

"Nothing. We should get back to the inn."

Clara crossed her arms as he started walking back to the centre of the village. "Sherlock Holmes, did you just ask me out?"She smiled at his back. Silly man.

.

Sherlock stopped at the back door and showed Clara the sharp notation on his notebook. ' D' was spelt roughly across the page in Sherlock's spiky handwriting.

"Okay…you can spell hound?" Clara offered, trying to work out what it meant.

"What if it's not a word - what if it's just individual letters?" He penciled in full stops between the letters.

"Like an acronym?" Clara said as they pushed open the doors of the pub.

"Not sure yet."

They stopped in the foyer, surprised by the familiar man standing at the bar, shaking hands with John. Detective Inspector Lestrade was heavily tanned with swarvy sunglasses on and hands tucked into beige chinos. "What the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock exclaimed.

"Well, nice to see you too," Greg scoffed, his voice loud and sarcastic. He tucked his sunglasses back into his jacket pocket. "I'm on holiday, would you believe?"

"No, I wouldn't," Sherlock spat back.

"Greg!" Clara cried cheerfully and kissed him on the cheek. She earned herself a perfectly poised smile in return.

"I heard you were in the area. What are you up to? You after this Hound of Hell like on the telly?"

"I'm waiting for an explanation, Inspector," Sherlock sang. "Why are you here?"

"I've told you. I'm on holiday," he repeated.

"You're brown as a nut. You clearly just got _back_ from your holiday."

"Yeah, well," Lestrade shrugged, his cover blown. "Well, I fancied another one."

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, sighing. "This is Mycroft isn't it?"

"No, look…"

"Of _course_ it is! One mention of Baskerville and he sends down my other handler to ... to spy on me incognito. Is that why you're calling yourself Greg?"

"That's his name!" Clara turned around with a whirl and stared - shocked - at Sherlock.

A line appeared between Sherlock's brow as he frowned. "Is it?"

" _Yes!_ " Clara and Lestrade both growled.

"If you ever bothered to find out," He added, seething. "Look, I'm not your handler," Lestrade frowned apologetically at Clara, "And I don't just do what your brother tells me."

"Actually, you might be the man we want," John butted in. "Unlike you lot," John started, "I haven't been idle. I've found something." He pulled out a crumpled docket from his pocket. It was a sales invoice from Undershaw Meat Supplies. "Here. Didn't know if it was relevant; starting to look like it might be. That is an awful lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant."

"Excellent," Sherlock said, buzzing with ideas.

"It's good we have a very scary inspector from Scotland Yard," Clara beamed, patting Lestrade's shoulder. She tapped the little silver bell on the bar.

.

Clara lounged in one of the chairs, watching Lestrade talking gravely to the two shop owners. The two lovers wriggled in their seats anxiously. Sherlock plopped down beside her and shoved a cup of coffee at John.

"What's this?" John stuttered, placing the hot cup on the little table beside him.  
"Coffee," Sherlock said simply. "I made coffee."  
"You don't make coffee," Clara uttered, staring at the cup. John and her shared a glance.

Sherlock shrugged and sat down. "I just did. Don't you want it?"

John paused eyeing the cup. Sherlock sniffed and picked lint off his knee, looking hurt. "Thanks," John coughed and sipped slowly. He grimaced immediately and swallowed quickly. "Mm, I don't take sugar," he whispered, taking another sip anyway to please Sherlock.

Lestrade hardly broke a sweat when interrogating the two men. They answered everything willingly. They kept a ordinary dog in a hidden mineshaft to help boost customers coming to Dartmoor. The dog was vicious and uncontrollable so they had to get it put down a month after they got it. Lestrade got up haughtily after the struggle of an interview. "He's pleased you're here," Clara said, running after him out the door. She nodded at Sherlock with the slightest tilt of her head. Lestrade muttered something incomprehensible and gave her a dark look. "Secretly pleased," Clara quipped.

"Is he?!" Lestrade exclaimed, running a hand through his short hair. "That's nice! I suppose he likes having all the same faces together. Appeals to his...his…" He struggled for the word, clicking his fingers impatiently.

"Mind?" Clara suggested. Sherlock joined them outside so Clara and Lestrade closed their mouths abruptly.

"So, you believe him about having the dog destroyed?" Lestrade started, shifting on his feet.

Sherlock pressed his lips together. Clara thought she might have seen a flicker of disappointment in his eyes. "No reason not to."

"Well, hopefully there's no harm done. Not quite sure what I'd charge him with anyway. I'll have a word with the local Force." Lestrade nodded towards town. "Right, that's it then. Catch you later." He grinned, looking up at the sky. "I'm enjoying this! It's nice to get London out of your lungs!" He pecked Clara on the cheek before strutting off to the parking lot.

Clara frowned, biting the inside of the cheek. It didn't make sense. "So that was just an ordinary dog that people saw out on the moor?"

"Looks like it," Sherlock told her shortly.

"But that's not what we saw, was it? That wasn't an ordinary dog, Sherlock. It was…" Clara trailed off. She smashed her eyes shut as the terrifying image clawed itself back into her head.

"Immense…" Sherlock started. "With burning red eyes. It was glowing…"

John came out, staring at them. "It can't have been _glowing_."

"It was," Sherlock shuddered. He must have mouthed something at John because Clara heard his feet crunch over the gravel. "Clara, look at me."

Clara opened her eyes, shaking her head. She was being silly. It was just a monster. She could deal with monsters. "I'm okay," She whispered. Was Sherlock somehow closer? "You've got a theory right? We'll figure this out, yeah?"

"Yes - but I have to go back to Baskerville to test it." Sherlock started to walk away but then swivelled on his heels, latching Clara's eyes with his own. "How did you pull of that ID trick?"

"Hey - hey you two!" A young man interrupted them, newspaper stuffed in the back of his pocket and dishevelled hair. It was the bloke who ran the spooky moor tours. "I just googled you…"

"Oh god," Sherlock muttered. Clara smiled politely. "Well," Fletcher said, hiking up his jeans, "You two and Dr Watson are doing alright in London. Could I grab a photo - might boost my business, as well as yours 'course."

"Oh, um." Clara shifted on her feet. Sherlock was subtly shaking his head. "Okay!"

"Great!" Fletcher snagged his battered phone out and stood in the middle of Sherlock and Clara. "Bunch up would ya?" He asked good-naturedly. Clara squeezed in, giving a thumbs up with her left hand. Sherlock begrudgingly put his hand on Fletcher's far shoulder. "Cheese!" They grinned and Sherlock stepped away like Fletcher had the plague. "Cheers," Fletcher smiled. He moped off back to the pub.

"Can we never ever do that again," Sherlock seethed. "Now, the ID trick…"  
"Who says it was a trick?" Clara replied, her eyes sparkling. "Now, tell me your theory and I'll go and be Sherlock Holmes."

"Why?"

"Because you can't get back in, silly!" Clara laughed. "Mycroft won't let you."

Sherlock smirked, tapping his phone to his ear. "Hello, brother dear. How _are_ you?"

.

Clara and Sherlock walked down the hallways of the Baskerville facility. John was already out secretly investigating the facilities. Clara's high heels clicked on the grey floors and the echoes bounced off the walls. "Do I look nice?" Clara asked. She was nervous. It had taken a lot of gumption to be confident when you're only five foot two.

"No," Sherlock told her blatantly, in that clipped tone of his. "You're too short and bossy and your nose is all funny."

Clara shrugged. She honestly hadn't been expecting anything nice. "Good enough."

Clara spied a door and suddenly, with as much force, pushed Sherlock into there. "Clara?!" He bellowed.

"Shush!"

She was so fast he hardly had time to react. Clara kissed him, standing on her tippy toes even in the heels. Sherlock's mouth was warm and she could feel his chapped lips tingling on hers.

"Mm- _lara!_ " He blurted into her mouth so she pulled back, stepping away. "Why on Earth did you do that?!"

"You asked me out to dinner, and I wanted to know." She grinned helplessly.

"Know what?" Sherlock straightened his collar, his eye twitching. _Oh, she really had shocked him!_

"If you meant what I thought you meant," She told him, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock stuttered, his mouth unable to form coherent sentences. "Please share your amazing deductions," He finally choked out.

Clara's mouth quirked. "You kissed me back." She turned around, hair swishing, and went to open the door. She turned back, smirking. "The chemistry is really quite simple," she added, quoting him from a few months ago, when he had been unravelling Irene Adler's great scheme. She strutted out, leaving him to regain his composure.

Major Barrymore wasn't the most gracious, understanding person. He glared at the two with steely grey eyes. "You're mad!" But it wasn't the Major speaking, it was Clara. "I don't like this, Sherlock." She'd seen the plan lying behind his eyes. It was the most ridiculous plan ever. He just brushed her off.

"Oh, you know I'd love to give you unlimited access for twenty-four hours. I'd be _thrilled_ ," the Major spat snarkily.

"It's a simple enough request, Major," Sherlock sighed.

"Your wife is right - it's bizarre!" He pointed roughly at Clara, eyes crazed.

"You're to give me twenty-four hours, it's…" he paused, breathing in deeply. "It's what I've negotiated."

"Not a second more," Barrymore muttered. "I may have to comply with this order but I don't have to like it." He swung back around to his desk, frowning at his computer. "I don't know what you're expecting to find here anyway."

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps the truth."

"Oh, God." Barrymore looked up. "The big coat should have told me - you two are part of that conspiracy lot, aren't you?" He grinned but it didn't reach his eyes. "Go on, go find the death rays, the monsters, the aliens."

"Got any of those?" Clara asked, her voice nonchalant. Barrymore rolled his eyes. "Just wondering," she murmured, innocently.

"Good luck," he snarled, and it wasn't exactly spiriting.

.

" _Sherlock_ ," Clara said, her voice full of warning.

"What?" He sighed heavily. "Oh, come on - he'll be fine!"

"Your _friend_." She crossed her arms. "You're using him as a labrat!"

"I told you I wanted to test the theory!"  
"This isn't right!"

Sherlock ignored her and started pumping sound effects into the microphone on the security desk. Clara could see John scampering around like a mouse on the little screens. He rang her phone but as she went to answer it, Sherlock plucked it out of her palm.

"Hey!"

"Just let him stew for a bit." He pocketed her phone and folded his leg over the other on top of the desk.

"You're a complete bastard," Clara grumbled, perching herself on the desk, looking worriedly at screens.

Sherlock scoffed loudly. "You just kissed me ten minutes ago."

"Yeah, well. We all have regrets," she snapped, fuming like a boiling kettle.

" _The chemistry really is quite simple_ ," he sang, voice as light as air. Clara whacked him on the shoulder. Her phone buzzed. Sherlock let it blip for a few seconds before handing it to her.  
"John?"  
"It's here Clara, it's in here with me." His voice was soft but shaky.

"Where are you?" Clara asked.

"Keep him talking - ask him about the monster," Sherlock whispered.

John's voice cracked before he answered. "Get me out, Clara. _You have to get me out_. The big lab, the first lab we saw."

"Hang on, hang on, Sherlock's here," Clara said. She wasn't going to play with John like this. If Sherlock wanted to experiment, he could experiment himself. She shoved the phone at Sherlock.

He took it with a dark glower. "John? John?" He sounded puffed and distressed even though he was lounging gleefully in the leather chair of the security office. He switched it onto speaker. John's frightened yelp crackled through the speakers.

"I'll find you," Sherlock falsely promised. "Keep talking."

" _I can't_ ," John breathed. His voice was choked and strangled. "It'll hear me."

Sherlock raised his own phone and played a monstrous snarl into the microphone. "What can you see?" He asked.

"I don't know. I don't know, but I can hear it, though."

Another effect was blasted into the room. "Did you hear that?" John gasped.

"Stay calm, just stay calm. Can you see it?"

Sherlock switched off the microphone and motioned for Clara to follow him. They marched down the hallways, heading for the lab.

"No," he whispered quietly. "I can…"

There was a rustle and a curse. "Shit, sh-shit. I can see it. I can see it." His voice was flat with dread. "It's here. It's bloody here."

Clara and Sherlock shared a look. The monster couldn't have been there. Clara had been looking right at the screens and there hadn't been a single sign of a shadow or a mutated dog.

They entered the lab. It was ghostly, with hanging plastic sheets and the odd fluorescent light.

"John!" Clara cried, slashing back a plastic sheet and finding him crouched in a cage. "C'mon, c'mon," she helped him up, giving him the biggest hug she could muster. "Are you alright?" She asked, breaking away and squeezing his arm.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. "I saw it, I saw the hound. I swear I saw it, Sherlock." John started looking around as the major light flickered on. There was literally no place a monster could have hidden. "Did you see it?" He whirled onto Clara, eyes filled of fear and doubt. "You must have!"

"It's okay, you're alright," Clara told him, her voice soothing.

"NO IT'S NOT! IT IS NOT OKAY! I saw it - I was wrong!" He was frantic and breathless and having a panic attack.

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. He looked like he was bored already.

"What?"

"What did you see?"

John shook his head, brows furrowed. "I told you what I saw."

"Huge, red eyes?"

"Yes!"

"Glowing?"

"Yeah."

"No."

"What?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I made that bit up about the glowing. You saw what I expected to see because I _told_ you. You have been drugged. We have _all_ been drugged."

"Drugged?" John tried to form more words but the neurons in his brain were zipping around too fast. "Clara, what's he on about?"

"Can you walk?" She asked, smiling to break the tension.

John had to look at his legs to check. "Yeah, yeah, I can walk," he replied, shakily.

"Come on then," Sherlock sang jovily. "Time to lay this ghost."

.

"It's not there!" Sherlock said, his voice snapping and his hand slapping the lab table beside the microscope. He was utterly livid. He snatched the glass slide from underneath the microscope and threw it across the room. Clara yelped and ducked. The little glass rectangle splintered on the wall where her head had been a second ago.

"What were you expecting to find?" Clara said, clutching her chest. Sherlock had given her a fright. "A drug?"

"A drug, of course! It has to be a drug. A hallucinogenic or a deliriant of some kind." He twisted to and fro on his feet, brushing his bottom lip between his fingers and snagging his hair. "There's no trace of anything in the sugar!"

"The sugar?" John asked. He gave Doctor Stapleton a sideways glance.

"The sugar, yes," Sherlock muttered, like it was obvious. "It's a simple process of elimination. I saw the Hound, saw it as my imagination expected me to see it. A genetically engineered monster. But I knew I couldn't believe the evidence of my own eyes, so there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics."

 _Which Sherlock was very well acquainted with_ , Clara thought angrily.

"Henry Knight and I both saw it, too," She added, brows drawn in concentration. "But you didn't, John."

"He didn't see it," Sherlock agreed. "Now, we have eaten and drunk exactly the same things since we got to Grimpen, apart from one thing! You don't take sugar in your coffee." He pointed at John, every single thought shuffling behind his eyes.

"I see," John said, even though he didn't really understand.

"So I took it from Henry's kitchen. His sugar - but it's perfectly alright."

"Well, maybe it's not the drug," Clara offered.

Sherlock shook his head, dark curls shaking. "No, it has to be the drug. How did it get into our systems? How? There must be something. Something, something, something buried deep." He looked up abruptly, turning to John and Doctor Stapleton. " _Get out_."

"What?" John said.

"Get out! I need to go to my mind palace."

John sighed at the ceiling. He was used to this.

"Your what?" Stapleton stuttered.

John led her to the door. "He's not going to be doing much talking for a while, we may as well go."

"His what?"

"His mind palace. It's a er, memory technique. You plot a map with a location. It doesn't have to be a real place. And then you deposit memories there. Theoretically, you can never forget anything. All you have to do is find your way back to it."  
"So this could be a house or a street?"

"Yeah." John reached for the handle and pushed the screeching door open.

"But he said palace. He said it was _a palace_."

"Yeah, well he would, wouldn't he?" John muttered.

.

The door swung shut. Clara sat on a stool directly across from Sherlock. She propped her chin in her hands, eyeing him thoughtfully. "I thought I told you to leave," Sherlock growled softly. He didn't really want her to, but he couldn't really explain why. Clara was just, always there.

"I never leave when you're in your mind palace," Clara said, shrugging.  
"What?" Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.

"You don't notice me. It's cool - just do your thing."

Sherlock looked at her, really looked at her. "So every time I'm in my mind palace you are still in the room?"

"Well, yes."

Sherlock turned away, looking at the wall.

Clara frowned. "Is something the matter?"

"No, no. Nothing."

It wasn't nothing. It was like the sky had crashed in. He couldn't breathe. Sherlock pressed his fingers to his temple and found the palace. It wasn't really a palace. There were lot's of rooms, rooms he had made up but others he knew well. Like the lab at St Barts or the staircase where he had raced down looking for the pink case - when he had first met John.

And there was Clara. Sherlock really was an idiot. She was wearing the same clothes and the same silly heels as the Clara in the real world. She was sitting down, head propped in hands, watching him with that interested expression. The type of look someone would use if they didn't think the other was watching. So his mind instantly crafted reality into his head. Interesting. Sherlock sat down on the low leather chair at 221B and considered her. Clara was on her phone now, probably texting Mycroft or Molly.

Sherlock was a man of habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and Clara had become one of them.

Other days when he delved into his mind palace, Clara was always there. She was sitting, picking lint off her stockings or reading a book. It was a shock to realise that she was actually there, doing exactly what Sherlock thought he was imagining. He shook his head, this was futile - he could think on this later. Right now, there was work to do. Sherlock got up and jogged down the hallways. He would find this mysterious hound.


	41. Monster or Man

Hi everybody, I know it's been a while - please don't sacrifice me as punishment, I do have to write this story for y'all. Do you like my new icon?

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Thanks to: deaddragon42, AragornSweetland

The Best Guesst: Hahaha don't sound so excited!

OrangeSunset1701: Yes the adorableness is so much fun to write, I'm so glad you liked it!

Oslock: A whofuffle shipper, should've guessed...I'm excited to write it because I know Clara wouldn't want to hurt either of them. I'm about to go into exams too - good luck!

Smauglock (guest): Hahah you and your friend are so funny on Wattpad - I love how you two chat in the comments.

Pri-Chan 1410: Thanks for your review :)

CresantShooter123: Yass! Hehe

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Project H.O.U.N.D was an experiment in a CIA facility. Leonard **H** ansen, Jack **O** 'Mara, Mary **U** slowski, Rick **N** ader and Elaine **D** yson. It was based on the idea of a new deliriant drug that could render the person highly suggestible and manipulable. It was a weapon. It could have totally discombobulated the enemy using fear and stimulus. They shut it down and shoved it into the deepest depth of the facility in 1986 because of the effect it had on the test subjects…

Prolonged exposure drove them insane, they became uncontrollable and aggressive. But someone had brought it back, reopened the project. "But who?" Clara asked, looking at Major Barrymore's computer. "Who would want to do that?"

"Do those names mean anything to you, Doctor Stapleton?"

Stapleton shook her head at the Detective. "No, not a thing."

Sherlock sighed. "Five principle scientists, twenty years ago." He brought up the picture of the H.O.U.N.D group on the screen. He zoomed in on the blurred faces, squinting closely.

"What if he, or she, is in the back - old enough to be there in 1986," Clara trailed off placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and leaning towards the screen. "Frankland," she whispered, jabbing a finger at one of the faces.

"Oh my god. Bob Frankland," Stapleton exclaimed. "But Bob doesn't even work on...I mean, he's a virologist. This was chemical warfare!"

"Cell phone!" Clara blurted. "He said cell phone."  
"American," Sherlock agreed. It fitted. "Nice of him to give us his number," Sherlock muttered, fishing out his phone. "Let's arrange a little meeting."

John's own phone chimed loudly. "Hello?" He answered. Clara could hear a shrill voice sobbing out of the receiver. "Whe-Where are you?" John swore quietly, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. "He's gone, he attacked her - the therapist - and now he's gone."

"Who?"  
"Henry - he's got a gun."

Clara snatched her phone off of the desk and hit speed dial. "Lestrade," She said, looking at Sherlock. His grey eyes glinted. "Get to the Hollow, Dewer's Hollow." Clara swallowed, pausing. She licked her lips worriedly. "Bring a gun."

.

"NO!" Clara shrieked, her feet nearly skittering over the edge of the Hollow. Henry was standing in the middle of the damp moor, pistol barrel shaking over his parted mouth. Sherlock grabbed the back of her coat but her shoes slipped over the wet leaves. He caught her around the waist and pulled her back.

" _John!_ " Sherlock urged in an insistent growl.

"Yep, on it." He and Lestrade sprinted down to the bottom, towards Henry.  
Clara slowed her breathing down and turned to face Sherlock. "Are you...Christ, are you?"

"I'm fine, fine."  
"Right, yes. Of course, um."

" _Henry_ …" Clara breathed, her brain kicking in. They shared a look and then saw Henry waving his gun wildly at John and Lestrade. They scrambled down the Hollow as fast as they could.

"You have to remember, really remember what actually happened here that night," Sherlock said, his words demanding.

Henry's face was crunched up in despair. "I thought it had got my dad – the hound. I thought…" He screamed out in anguish, raising the gun back to his head. It jittered over his nervous lips.

" _No, Henry, for goodness sake_ ," Clara lurched towards him but Sherlock held her hand. A silent plea. She might provoke him to pull the trigger.

"Henry, remember. _Liberty and In_. Two words a frightened little boy saw twenty years ago." Sherlock's words shot out of his mouth in rapid fire. Henry stopped trembling but the gun remained at his mouth. "You'd started to piece things together, remember what _really_ happened here that night. It wasn't an animal, was it, Henry?" Henry straightened up. "It wasn't a monster. It was a _man_."

Henry's eyes widened as the memories rushed back to him.

"You couldn't cope. You were just a child, so you rationalised it into something very different. But then you started to remember, so you had to be stopped; driven out of your mind so that no-one would believe a word that you said."

Clara stepped forward, quietly holding out her hand, palm up, to accept the gun. She took another step and gently pried the gun from his fingers.

"But we saw it: the hound, last night. We s...we, we, we _did_ , we saw…"

"Yeah, but there _was_ a dog, Henry, leaving footprints, scaring witnesses, but it was nothing more than an ordinary dog. We both saw it – saw it as our drugged minds wanted us to see it. Fear and stimulus; that's how it works, right Sherlock?"

"Yes, but there never was a monster," Sherlock said. An anguished howl ricocheted off the trees and the whole forest seemed to shake. Their heads snapped up and flashlights scanned the wood. A low, hunched shape was stalking the rim of the hollow. The snarls rattled their bones.

" _Sherlock_ ," Clara gasped, her shoulders trembling. Her voice was barely audible. Sherlock held out a hand towards her, a gesture made from muscle memory. _Clara_. They had the same gravity, there was a tangible pull between them.

"No," Henry muttered, " _No, no, no, no_ …" Panic was rising up his throat and into the night.

"Henry, Henry…" Clara shifted away from Sherlock, shuffling towards the panicking man. The creature was still slinking around the hollow like a prowling lion. Clara swore, her breath hitching. Henry crumpled to his knees and sobbed into the dirt. The fog was swirling around them like a ghostly ocean. It was up to Clara's knees.

"Shit!" Lestrade bellowed as the creature's eyes glowed like an angry hearth.

"Greg are you seeing this?" John asked, his eyes crazed. Lestrade's expression answered the question. "Right, so he isn't drugged. So what is that, Sherlock? _What is that?!_ "

"All right, it's still here…" Sherlock dragged his hands down his face, trying to separate fact from fiction. "...But it's just a dog. Henry, It's nothing more than an ordinary dog!" The hound raised its shaggy head and howled to the moon.

Clara stumbled backwards. " _Sherlock. Not. Helping_." She gritted her teeth, her hand twisting around Henry's gun tighter. It was real, the monster wasn't a drug induced hallucination. Clara could see its fur shining under the stars and the claws scraping back the soft dirt. The hound opened it's mouth and sharp white teeth glowed in the moonlight. Saliva dripped off its canines as it licked its jowls. They were going to die by the claws of a monster.

"The fog!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"What?" Clara shrieked. She was aiming Henry's gun at the hound. Sherlock paused for a second taking the image in. Did she even know what she was doing? She looked like she did - safety off and hands steady. How did she know what she was doing? Sherlock's brain asked these questions and dismissed them in under a second. "The drug - it's in the fog! Aerosol dispersal - that's what it said in the files. Project H.O.U.N.D, it's the fog! Chemical minefield!"

Lestrade threw his arm across his face, smashing his nose into the crook of his elbow to stop inhaling the chemicals. The hound was still coming closer to the group.

Clara heard the smush of damp leaves behind her and yelped, turning around. Clara whipped around, Sherlock following. There was a figure stepping slowly up to them. "Frankland!" She shrieked, pointing her weapon at him without a thought. Sherlock grabbed him by the coat lapels.

"For God's sake kill it!" Frankland roared as the monster clambered down the banks, nostrils flaring. Lestrade and John both took a few shots at it and it finally squealed, rolling down among the muddy leaves.

"Look at it Henry," Sherlock panted, leaving Frankland to Clara and pushing Henry to the body of the monster. He resisted, planting his feet into the ground.

"No, no, no, I can't…"

"Look at it!"

It was just an ordinary dog, small black, button eyes, a dark coat and paws smaller than Clara's hands. Sherlock was right - they had been drugged. Henry turned, realisation and anger twisting his features. He let out a shriek, lunging at Frankland, pushing him to the ground. "You bastard, you bastard!" Lestrade, John and Sherlock had to pull him off. "Twenty years! Twenty years of my life making no sense! Why didn't you just kill me?"

Frankland got up, Clara aiming the gun steadily at his head. He smirked at her, black eyes drilling into hers. "You wouldn't pull the trigger," he smirked, chuckling with dark delight.

"Don't tempt me," Clara deadpanned.

Frankland went to grapple for the gun but Clara pulled the trigger, purposely missing him by bare inches. Frankland stilled, eyes wide with disbelief. "You could have killed me, you mad bitch," he bellowed.

Clara arched an eyebrow. "Just used to a better class of alien," she mused. She turned, smiling slightly at the boys. "You were saying, dear?" She prodded.

"Ah, yes, um…" They all looked like codfish with their mouths open, especially Sherlock. "Henry, er, yes-er, because dead men get listened to. He needed to do more than kill you. He had to discredit every word you ever said about your father, and he had the means right at his feet – a chemical minefield; pressure pads in the ground dosing you up every time that you came back here…" Sherlock spun around, gesturing at the Hollow. "Murder weapon and scene of the crime all at once."

He laughed with delight, clapping his hands together. "Oh, this case, Henry! Thank-you, it's been _brilliant_."

"Sherlock…"John started, a line appearing between his brows.

"What?"

John gave him a pointed stare. " _Timing_."

"Not good?"

"No, no, it's - it's okay," Henry butted in. The colour was slowly coming back to his cheeks. "It's fine, because this means…" He took a step towards Frankland, his spine straightening. John stepped with him, ready to intervene. "...this means my dad was _right_." Tears were tracking down Henry's cheeks, parting through the grime of the moor. "He found something out, didn't he, and that's why you'd killed him - because he was right, and he found you right in the middle of an experiment."

Suddenly, the dog whined loudly. A slow snarl rumbled up its throat and slipped through its bloody lips. It stumbled to its feet, whimpering in pain. John fired again, finally killing the animal.

"Oh, _really?_ " Clara screeched in exasperation. Frankland took his chance to run off. Sherlock raced after him, straight into Clara's line of fire. She swore at the detective and lowered her gun, trying to catch up with her short legs.

"It's no use, Frankland!" She heard Sherlock yell. They reached the barb wire fence stopping them from entering the minefield. Frankland, however, didn't hesitate, clearing the fence and falling to the other side. He jogged a few yards and stilled.

"Frankla-"

He deliberately lifted his foot and a explosion of light rippled through the air. Sherlock tackled Clara to the ground as the others ducked. The force rattled their ears and forgotten debris coated them. "Would you really have shot him?"

Sherlock's nose brushed hers. They were millimeters away. Clara scoffed. "Course not, I was just trying to scare him. Pretty impressive, though, wasn't it?" She smiled her beautiful smug smile.

"Fooled me," Sherlock muttered, eyes laughing.

"I'd really love to have dinner with you," Clara blurted, her words like a mess of hot air.

"Good thing the chemistry really is quite simple," Sherlock chuckled. He surprised her, pressing the whisper of his chapped lips on the edge of her mouth. A promise, a tentative experiment, a scientific exploration.

Clara grinned. "Get off me, Cheekbones," she scolded, though her voice was breathless. "You promised dinner, remember?"

.

"So…" John coughed, shaking salt over his vegetarian version of a hearty breakfast.

"So…" Sherlock mimicked, taking the lid off of his cardboard coffee cup to cool it down.

John sighed loudly. "I wonder what Clara's up to?" He looked pointedly at the inn.

Sherlock picked up a newspaper, pretending to read the front page. "Oh look, Mrs Hudson will have a fit," he muttered, showing John an article on rising condiment prices.

" _Sherlock_."

"We could probably ask Mycroft to do something about. Bribe a manager or something. Can't have the jam prices overtaking the marmalade."

"Sherlock, I _know_ where you were last night."

But Sherlock wouldn't play so John shovelled in his breakfast until the detective finally stopped rambling about supermarket prices. John knew that Sherlock didn't sleep in the two bedroomed room they had booked. His bed hadn't changed from the night before.

"So what were you up to last night?" John asked, a second attempt.

"Nothing," Sherlock shrugged.

" _Really_ ," John muttered, biting his toast.

"I had dinner," Sherlock allowed, sipping his coffee.

"With Clara?"

"Maybe," he coughed, looking around desperately for help.

"And then…"

"This coffee is revolting, I think I'll go and get a new one," Sherlock babbled, he practically ran back towards the inn.


	42. Rose and Crown

Exams are all done and dusted - I am freeeeee! (Except for one assignment but whatever)

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Thanks to: Andthemachine, There'sNoGoodUsernamesLeft, Computer101, pinksunflowerhat, TheOriginofTime, ThoughtfulPencil

Oslock: Thank-you for the kind wishes!

KuroLililium: Thank-you 3

Guest: Clara is the definition of badass! I hope you are happy with how your English Lit exam went!

Pri-Chan 1410: Haha thanks.

OrangeSunset1701: I KNOW - sooo adorable

* * *

Oscar yowled angrily, his fur bristling as Clara accidentally shoved him to the floor. She jumped up from Sherlock's chair as if electrocuted, staring at the newspaper with eyes as large as dinner plates. The cat slunk into the kitchen, death staring his owner over his shoulder. Clara froze, her lips moving as she read the article to herself. "Sherlock!" She choked out, "Ohmygodohmygodohmygod _Sherlock!_ "

"Clara, what is it?" John rushed into his apartment from hers. The door between was never left shut anymore. John had been scavenging for clean teacups. Clara was at loss for words, she just shoved the newspaper at him. John took it off her, his eyes instantly drawing towards the photograph. It was a picture of Clara and Sherlock on either side of Fletcher, the young tour guide from Dartmoor. "But this was, this was a month ago," John protested. What could be wrong? Of anything, it was a nice photograph, even though Sherlock was grimacing.

"Read the article," Clara spat, stabbing the flimsy newspaper with her index finger.

John squinted at the print. "Oh god," he muttered. The article highlighted the shiny rings adorned Clara and Sherlock's hands. It went on to quote sections of John's blog when they first mentioned Clara.

"And I still have this stupid ring on. I completely forgot about it." Clara pulled it off of her finger and threw it onto the floor in a breathless rage. "Can't Mycroft do something about this?"

"Clara, it's already circulating. You'll just have to wait until it dies down."

"What are you two raving about?" Sherlock muttered as he trooped up the stairs.

" _This!_ " Clara snatched the newspaper from John and shoved it under Sherlock's nose.

Sherlock sniffed in disgust. "I don't concern myself with media. It's counter productive."

"Well this _media_ thinks we're _married_ ," Clara seethed, her words like fire.

John shrugged. "To be fair, you two were pretty convincing." Sherlock and Clara both gave him a pointed glare. "Just saying," he muttered in defence. Clara swatted him with the paper before strutting into her own apartment. John just enjoyed the doubling view numbers on his blog.

"Hey, who used my laptop?" John demanded, spying the sleek silver machine on the bottle green couch.

"Oh, it was just Oswin," Sherlock dismissed easily. "She was shopping or something."

"What did you just call me? Oswin?" Clara stood in the connecting doorway.

Sherlock paused, biting his lip. "Sorry, right, Clara. I meant Oswald."

"I thought you had your own laptop?" John said.

Sherlock didn't listen to their petty argument, he couldn't get it out of his head. _Oswin_. He'd heard that name before - Clara had said it while playing Cluedo, "Oswald for the win! _Oswin!_ " - but it was more than that. Something else he couldn't grasp. It was right in front of him but as tangible as smoke. Sherlock sat down and entered his mind palace. He raced through the hallways, following the wheezing groaning sound that accompanied the two syllable word. _Oswin, Oswin, Oswin_. Bowties. Why did that pop into his head? Why were bowties important? Sherlock entered a room, white walls and floors, bleary white light. A tattered blue dressing gown was crumpled on the floor. Sherlock picked it up, running the silk through his fingers. It was shredded with burn holes and the unmistakable smell of melted plastic.

" _Oh!_ "

It came to Sherlock in a rush: _time machines, the Doctor, an exploding star, wonder boy, a time lord_. He could remember it, all of it. The day that never happened, that was rewritten. Sherlock plucked a floating piece of paper out of the air. The torn out page of a book, mottled yellow with age. And there she was. The simple picture of a governess with hair pulled back and victorian era clothes. Clara _Oswin_ Oswald was inscribed underneath in a beautiful flowing script. She was real then, the Doctor had confirmed it. And she was real now - the brave Clara he knew.

Sherlock came back to the present. He had to find this Doctor again. He had to make sure this was true. Clara's phone was on the table. Sherlock snatched it up, scrolling through her contacts. She always left it lying around. Clara got easily sidetracked - a burning soufflé, a good book, a case that had them running down the stairs. _The Doctor_. Sherlock stilled, taking it all in. He banked the digits into his memory and placed Clara's phone back on the table. She came in a second later, picking it up and stuffing it into her handbag. She pecked him on the cheek before she left - some sort of job interview at a school. John was off as well, finishing his tea before heading to the hospital. Sherlock picked up his own phone before dialing the number.

"'Ello? Who is this?" The voice was curious, defensive and matched the gangly person from Sherlock's memory. "I'm quite busy at the moment," the voice continued with snarky impatience.

"Hello, Doctor," Sherlock uttered. He couldn't quite believe it.

"I thought you'd be quicker," the Doctor sighed.

"Sorry?"

"Clara said you were smart - a genius perhaps."

"Of course I'm a genius," Sherlock scoffed into the receiver. Was it even a question? "Where can I meet you?"  
The Doctor paused before answering. "Are you in Baker Street, alone?"

"Yes, why?"

"Well then you've got a client."

The doorbell trilled.

.

The Doctor sniffed around the flat like a dog inspecting a new home. He brushed over the mess of petri dishes and microscopes in the kitchen and sneered at the frozen eyes defrosting on the bench. He tutted at the dust on the mantelpiece and frowned at the general dilapidated appearance. "You've really let this place go," he remarked, sitting down in John's tattered chair and crossing one gangly leg over the other.

"I don't really have guests."

"Gathered. How did you meet Clara?"

"Over skype - one of us accidentally called the other. My brother employed her as my..." he paused, embarrassed. "Supervisor." He regained his composure quickly, sitting down in his own chair and considering the Doctor over clasped fingers. "How did you meet Clara?"  
"Which one?" The Doctor quipped and Sherlock looked even more intrigued. "I met Oswin Oswald on Skaro - just a silly little planet - she was the Junior Entertainment Manager for the starliner Alaska. I met Clara Oswin Oswald in London, the Victorian era. She was a barmaid and a governess. I met Clara Oswald because she called me, wanting help with the wi-fi." The Doctor talked incessantly with his hands waving. He was incapable of holding his flapping fingers still while chatting. "Now, you take her crime solving? _Detective-ing_. She's nearly died because of you. But she's addicted and I don't like it."

The Doctor's face turned fowl with anger. Sherlock matched his glare. "Your influence has nearly killed her, too. You lost her in the space of two minutes - oh, yes, I remember _that_ , don't you worry -"

"We got her back," the Doctor growled, his hands curling into fists.

"Gallivanting around the universe, space and time, all that rubbish - it's not natural."

"Neither is a grown man in need of a babysitter - like I said, she's addicted to time travel. She loves it."

"You'll be the death of her!"

"Which is a problem for you, isn't it wonder boy?" The Doctor leaned forward. They were like two protective animals, snarling at each other. "If she's gone then no one will stop Mister Heroin over here-"

"Oh, oh, oh, _I get it_ ," Sherlock seethed. "You can't help it. You're jealous."

"What? No!"

"Oh, yes. You offer her the universe but she'd rather solve crimes with a detective in a scruffy flat."

"You think a pompous detective will fool me…"

"Yes, I think he will," Sherlock interrupted, his tone sharp and short. "You're easily distracted, you can't keep your eyes off of that bird on the windowsill for more than a few seconds, obsessive _and_ compulsive - you've straightened that bowtie four times since you walked in the door. Definitely more than a habit. You are defensive and nervous, fiercely protective. Just the right time for some OCD to come out and play. Are you impressed yet, because I'm hardly trying and I'd rather get onto something important."

The Doctor spoke through gritted teeth. "If you kill her, I'll bury you myself."

Sherlock smiled but it didn't reach his cold eyes. "Likewise." He stood up, flicking his violin bow around like a sword. "Now, where's your ship?"  
"It's a TARDIS," the Doctor scolded. "If you're going to spend ten minutes insulting me you could at least have the decency to not call her a ship."

"But it is a space ship?"

"A spaceship?!" The Doctor exclaimed, his hands flying about. They'd gotten the death threats out of the way and now it was time for some real fun. "No, no, no, much more than an ordinary spaceship. A time machine, time and relative dimensions in space," he smiled, thinking lovingly of his TARDIS.

"Fascinating," Sherlock uttered. The murder was slowly leaving his voice and he switched to his usual curious self.

The Doctor got up, pinning Sherlock with a look. He could see the same loyalty to Clara in the detective's eyes. "Do you want to see her?"

"Your ship? Of course."  
"No, no, Clara - _Clara Oswin Oswald_."

"The Clara I read in the book," Sherlock said, thinking out loud. "The Clara who died."

"She's quite a catch," the Doctor promised with a smirk. "But you'd already know that."

.

Sherlock brushed his hands over the smooth silver edges of the consol, admiring the impossibility of it all. There was a squeaky over head screen and countless blinking buttons and gold switches. Protruding from the consul and spiralling up to the ceiling was a cylindrical glass chamber with a bobbing green light trapped inside. It was beautiful. Panic rose up in Sherlock's throat like a ball of water, making him choke. But he swallowed it down. It was easier the second time to not go into shock, to calm his heart and breath it in. _Clara is impossible_ , Sherlock reminded himself. _And she doesn't make you have panic attacks_.

"Are you alright?" the Doctor asked, with a certain gravity tainting his voice.

"Fine," Sherlock replied shortly. "Just...adjusting."

"Most people vomit," The Doctor shrugged, turning a few dials.

"I'm not most people," Sherlock retorted with a grim look in his eye.

"Well if you _do_ ," the Doctor spat, "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Now, are you ready?"

"I'm always ready."

The Doctor gave him an unnerving smile. " _Geronimo_." He slammed down a lever and they were thrown around like old socks in a washing machine. Sherlock lurched back and managed to grab hold of the outer railings with white knuckles. The wheezing, groaning sound of the TARDIS reverberated inside his ear drums. The Doctor, damn him, was laughing. Sparks blew from the console like tiny fireworks and at last they landed with a thump. Sherlock strode towards the door, reaching for the handle. "Wait!" The Doctor shouted. Sherlock turned, ready to snarl at him. "You are not entering Victorian London looking like _that_. They'd think you're some wizard, come with me…" The Doctor whistled down the stairs, turning left, happy as can be. Sherlock begrudgingly followed.

Sherlock's shoes tapped on the cobblestones as he waltzed to the pub the Doctor had pointed out. He straightened the tattered waistcoat and brushed a hand over the silken cravat. Despite the moth eaten tuxedo jacket, Sherlock confidently jammed the top hat over his curls and proceeded to walk into the Rose and Crown.

He had been expecting to see Clara straight away but she wasn't in sight. " _Sit down_ ," a voice in his ear hissed. Sherlock fiddled with the inconspicuous contraption sitting in his ear. "You look like a complete boffin!"

Sherlock say down haughtily at one of the rickety tables. The Rose and Crown was bustling with regulars and travellers and generally bearded men sloshing beer down their throats. Sherlock fiddled with the edge of his hat, waiting for Clara. Was she even working? The buffoons occupying the inn were loud and round, laughing and singing. A fellow in the corner banged out a shaky tune on the broken piano. "Is she even working?" Sherlock whispered aloud, angrily.

"No, I just brought you here to see the sights - of course she's working you nitwit!"

"Why can't you leave the TARDIS?" Sherlock muttered, feeling exposed. The Doctor started babbling about time streams but Sherlock wasn't listening. Someone had slammed a wooden mug down on the table, sloshing liquid of the lip and onto the surface.

"Alrigh'?" She asked, smiling a brief practiced smile. Her accent was different, definitely more rural but with a friendly lilt in her voice. She was stunning, in a worn red dress and had her hair piled on top of her head in a twist. It really was Clara. "What can I get you?"

Sherlock sat, stunned. "Some dinner would be nice," he managed to stammer.

"I'll be back in a jiffy," she grinned and swirled away, already talking to the next customer.

Sherlock waited, his heart in his throat. It was amazing, unreal. He sipped the homemade brew but spat it out onto the floor. It was bitter and smelled like old socks. He didn't understand how the other burly men were chugging it down like it was the elixir of life. Clara brought his dinner, placing the steaming plate in front of him and sliding into the seat opposite. Sherlock picked up the cutlery and poked at the lump of meat and burnt potatoes. "You're different," Clara stated, frowning slightly. "We don't get your sort of lot in 'ere much."

"What's your name," Sherlock said, though he already knew it.

"Clara," she said, tapping her fingers on the table. She considered him with those dark eyes he saw everyday. "What's yours?"

"Sherlock."

"That's a funny name," she laughed, smiling tentatively.

Sherlock allowed a smile. "If you say so."

"Sherlock," she repeated, testing it in her mouth. It was the first time this Clara had said it. It was strange, Sherlock's Clara said it every day, barking it, murmuring it, whispering it and stammering it. "What brings you to the Rose and Crown?"

"I was hungry," he said. Sherlock stabbed a potato with his fork and sliced it in half with the knife. He chewed it, missing Mrs Hudson's cooking.

"God, you can even use your cutlery all proper! These louts," she nodded at the shouting men over her shoulder, "They'd just shove it in their gob."

"Etiquette isn't a burden," Sherlock replied.

"You sound real posh too." She bit her lip as if considering something. "Could you help me with something?"

"Course," he said, talking over the gamey meat between his teeth.

"Come with me, I'm on my break anyways…" Sherlock followed her outside into the cool night air. She gestured for him to sit on a rickety wooden bench in the park across the road. Clara stood up, pacing and wringing her hands. "I've got this job interview in three days for a governess job. I really, really need this position except I can't talk nice, can I? Could you help me?"

Sherlock was taken aback. "...Okay," he started.

"How about you just say things and I'll copy 'em?"

"Alright. Um…my name is Sherlock Holmes."

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"No, no, no, you've got to enunciate the end, Sher _lock_."

"My name is Sher _lock_ Holmes."

"Yeah! Okay, how about...I like green eggs and ham."

"What?" Clara giggled. "'Right, er, I like green eggs'n'ham."

"Stop skipping over words - green eggs _and_ ham." Her voice stopped sounding like she was talking through a mouth full of crackers and rather gained an important high toned pronunciation of a true English Lady.

"You sound like a Queen," Sherlock applauded.

Clara smiled, her eyes shuttering. "Cheers, Mister Holmes. You're a true gent."

Sherlock brushed himself off as he stood up. He was reluctant to leave but the Doctor was nagging in his earpiece. "It was a pleasure," He replied, kissing the back of her hand and bowing deeply. It was so theatrical that Clara burst into laughter. Sherlock strolled through the streets feeling like he was walking on a cloud. He hummed, practically skipping his way to the TARDIS.


	43. Wrong Toilet

Helloo, how are you? I'm currently in a puddle of tears after watching the latest Doctor Who episode. Whyyyyy

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Thanks to: miciahrumble, UberDude04

ProudlyOslocked (guest): I miss her so much

Mermaid1108 (guest): Haha that review just encapsulated this story, love it!

Pri-Chan 1410: Glad you liked it!

CresantShooter123: Yes! The Doctor _is_ adorable, isn't he?! And I love writing him; he can be so serious but so childish :)

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Sherlock was uncomfortable. The ground was too hard, the wind was wafting his hair into his eyes and all the flashing cameras were giving him a headache. He hated this. He wanted to solve crimes, all the gratitude riff-raff was unproductive and utterly unnecessary. But still, he stood on the pavement as a family hugged their son while the press crowded around like bumbling blowflies. "Our family has our son back after his terrifying ordeal; and we have one person to thank for his deliverance: Sherlock Holmes." The grateful father looked kindly upon Sherlock and John who stood as still as statues.

The public applauded and little Tom, the rescued boy, handed Sherlock a small token of their thankfulness. Sherlock shook the box. "Tie pin," he deduced. "I don't wear ties."

"Shh," John hushed out of the corner of his mouth.

"Clara!" The child cried with loud enthusiasm. Tom pushed past the reporters and ran to hug Clara who was walking towards the crowd. Tom latched his arms around Clara's torso as she awkwardly patted him on the back.

The buzzing media turned their lenses on her, finally realising it was the mysterious girl they had depicted in the paper a month ago. The reporters were shouting questions and receiving only Clara's concerned, pleading stare in return. "Mister Holmes!" A young columnist cried. His voice was loud and slurred. "Is this your Mrs?"

"Ah…" Sherlock trailed off, searching for a way to get Clara out of the situation as soon as possible. "This is Clara _Oswald_ , she works with us and looked after Tim-"

" _Tom_ ," John corrected.

"Looked after Tom once we had located him." He shook hands of the family roughly and then unlatched Tom from Clara and steered her down the street.

A month later, Clara watched, grinning, as Sherlock stood awkwardly at Scotland Yard's press conference with John muttering out of the corner of his mouth. Lestrade explained how Sherlock captured the evasive Peter Ricoletti and how grateful the police were. Sherlock smiled insincerely. Clara could see that he was ready to bolt when the moment arose. The press applauded and Lestrade handed Sherlock a small present, haphazardly wrapped in purple tissue paper.

Sherlock held it, not sure what to do or say. His eyes found Clara's instantly. God, she was magnetic. " _Open it!_ " She mouthed, her eyes twinkling in amusement. A few reporters turned around, catching sight of the mysterious Clara Oswald they had heard of on a few occasions. Sherlock ripped apart the packaging, unearthing a grey deerstalker. " _Oh_ ," he uttered, attempting to seem pleased. Sally Donovan and Lestrade were in a fit of laughter.

"Put it on!" A photographer begged and soon the whole audience was chanting.

Sherlock shoved in on his head with gritted teeth. He glared at Clara, knowing that she was probably the mastermind behind it. She grinned smugly, enjoying how uncomfortable he looked. It served the selfish prick right.

"Well, I'm glad we cleared that up," Clara sighed once they had gotten themselves back to Baker Street.

"What up?" Sherlock mumbled, flicking through a newspaper.

"The whole marriage business."

"Boffin?!" Sherlock exclaimed indignantly, his nose an inch from the page. "'Boffin Sherlock Holmes'?"

"Everybody gets one," John explained. Sherlock through the paper onto the coffee table haughtily.

"Gets what?" Clara asked, picking up the paper.

"Tabloid nickname."

"Huh. I hope I don't."

"Page five, column six, first sentence," Sherlock sighed, grabbing the deerstalker and punching it. "Why is it always the hat photo?"

" _Mrs Holmes_ ," she shrieked. "Clara Oswald, the unemployed spinster was the mysterious wife of the famous private detective…" Her eyes were as wide as dinner plates as she read on.

"What sort of hat is it anyway?" He flicked it from side to side, upside down and flipped it over in his hands. "Is it a cap? Why does it have two fronts?"

"It's a deerstalker - they're making me sound like some scamp who wants to take your fame!"

"Some sort of death frisbee?"

"Frequently seen in the company of the internet detective," Clara snapped the newspaper shut. "This is too much, we have to be more careful."

"It's got flaps ... ear flaps. It's an _ear_ hat, Clara." Sherlock flicked the hat and it skimmed across the room to Clara. She caught it against her stomach, dropping the paper.

"What do you mean by too much?" Sherlock drawled distastefully. He hated this sort of gossip.

"It means," John explained, "That this isn't a deerstalker anymore, this is a Sherlock Holmes hat."

"You're practically famous," Clara added, she threw the hat back at Sherlock as he flopped into his chair.

"Oh, it'll pass," Sherlock sighed, he placed his hands underneath his chin as if in prayer.

"The press _will_ turn, Sherlock," John snapped, pointing at the paper on the floor. "They always turn, and they'll turn on you."

"It really bothers you two," Sherlock whispered, his delicate eyes flicking between them. Full of confusion, full of disbelief.

"What?" Clara said.

"What people say…"

"Yes," John told him, grim and honest.

Clara frowned at him. _Of course I do, Cheekbones_. Why did he only just realise that now? After everything… His eyes were still trying to wrap around the statement. She could see his mind ticking. _I don't understand - why would it upset you?_

Clara shook her head. "Just keep a low profile, 'kay?"

.

Clara pressed the phone to her ear, grinding her teeth together. "C'mon, c'mon, c'mon…" she uttered as the dial tone went on and on. The Tower of London, Pentonville Prison and the Bank of England - it was unbelievable, Clara could hardly make sense of how one man could cause so much havoc. "Sherlock you ignorant little…" Clara didn't finish her sentence because finally, after the fifteenth call, someone picked up.

"Clara?"

"John! John, oh, thank goodness. John…" She paused, her throat closing around the words. "He's back. John...Moriarty is back."

Clara blinked back the tears pressing behind her eyes. She looked at Lestrade for strength. The police station was buzzing with the fear and curiosity about this consulting criminal. Lestrade's office was silent with dread - for once in her life, Donovan wasn't feeling the need to make a sarcastic side note or snarky comment. Clara listened to John's heavy breathing on the line.

"How do you know?" He finally said, is words were uneasy, dripping in worry.

"I got a text and then we - Lestrade - found him. He wanted to be found, John."

"Hang on," John replied.

Clara lent on the windowsill. Fear was gurgling in her stomach. Moriarty had nearly killed her once and she'd fooled him in return. But he let them live because someone else had grabbed his attention.

"Clara?" Sherlock's voice was a concerned rumble. Gosh, his voice was always so deep, so full of mystery. Clara had never felt so relieved in her life.

"Moriarty," she said, stumbling over the name like it was a terrible curse. "Sherlock - I saw him. He's back."

"The text - what did it say?"

"'Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x.'" Clara stalked out of Lestrade's office, through the main office, down the elevator, past chatting police officers and into the morning light. She could hear Sherlock breathing along with her, right in her ear. It was comforting and rhythmic.

"It was for me," Sherlock told her. She heard a door slam. He must have been getting into a cab.

Clara stamped her foot worriedly on the pavement. "Are you sure? Sherlock, I switched off the lights so you could get the gun. I had bluffed him for a minute, I-I…"

"He used you to get to me - trust me, the text was for me. He's threatening me not you."

"Last time he threatened you I ended up handcuffed to a bomb."

A cab skidded to a halt on the curb. Sherlock got out, his feet slapping across the cement towards her. "That's not going to happen again," Sherlock told her, he clicked off his phone, hands brushing her arms lightly. "He won't lay a finger on you." He said it as a vow. Clara swallowed thickly, wondering what the cost of that promise would be.

"We found him with the Crown Jewels," Clara said. She turned on her heel and they walked back into the police station. "We've got some security footage you'll want to see."

"Wait…" Sherlock stalled before the elevator. "Mycroft can get you a plane ticket today, to the States or New Zealand. New identity, new passport. I know some people who can take care of you…"

" _Sherlock_ ," Clara said, stopping him. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "You nearly died."

"You nearly died." Clara flicked her hair haughtily. "We both nearly died, who cares? This is our job."

"No, this is my job. Your job-"

" _Is to protect you_ -"

"No, to watch me and report back to my brother."

"Same difference," Clara snapped. She pressed the button for the elevator roughly.

Sherlock grabbed her arm. " _Clara_ , I'm serious."

"Sherlock, I turned off the lights that night, at the pool. I helped you get the gun. You said so yourself that I was an integral part of the solving of cases."

The elevator dinged open but neither of them went in. "Clara, I don't know..." He stopped, looking away. "I don't know if-" _I can live without you_. He found her eyes again. "If you stay, I can't promise your safety. It'll be dangerous."

A slow, confident grin spread over Clara's face. Sherlock's stomach dropped. Why couldn't she just be cowardly for once? He didn't know what he'd do without Clara Oswald. Sherlock didn't know what he would do if he was responsible for her death. The Doctor would kill him for sure. Maybe that was intended as a mercy rather than a punishment.

"Danger is my middle name," Clara quipped as she strutted into the elevator.

"I think I'll take the stairs," Sherlock said. Her face fell as the doors whirred shut.

.

"Has Clara called?"  
"No. And you can stop asking - I'll tell you if she does."

Sherlock straightened his jacket roughly. John said 'if' not 'when' and it bothered him. Clara had ripped up the plane ticket Mycroft had arranged and thrown the passport into the fireplace. The door between 221A and 221B had remained very firmly shut.

"Texted?" Sherlock tried.

" _Christ_ ," John muttered, restraining himself from strangling Sherlock. "She'll be there. Okay?"

"How do you know?"

John's throat bobbed in anger. He breathed out heavily through his nose, crossing his arms. "Can you just stop thinking about her for once in your life and just get this trial over and done with?"

Sherlock sniffed and turned his head. "'Course," he mumbled.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

They walked out the door and into a jungle of cameras. Reporters were shouting and lights flashing. Sherlock could hardly see straight as they were shepherded into the police car. He got in, thinking about how Clara always bites her lip when she's reading or how her brows scrunch together when she's confused.

"Remember…" John started, snapping Sherlock out of his daydream.

"Yes," He replied stiffly.

" _Remember…_ "

"Yes."

"Don't be clever," John said, even more insistently.

"No," Sherlock said talking over his friend.

"...just keep it simple and brief, _please_."

"God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent," Sherlock drawled with his usual snarkiness.

"Intelligent - fine. Let's give smart ass a wide berth."

Sherlock paused before replying. That was something Clara would say. _Shut up, Cheekbones. Don't be a detective, just be a man. An ordinary man with taxes to calculate and an angry cat._ It made him smile slightly. "I'll just be myself."

"Are you even listening to me?" John shouted, his mouth contorting with anger.

Sherlock let his fingers run under the stream of water and then delicately shut the tap off and wiped his hands with rough paper towel. A bag slipped from a woman's hand behind him and dropped to the floor with a muffled thump. Sherlock continued drying his pale hands but glanced at the intruder.

"You're him," She gasped, awestruck. She had a tatty deerstalker jammed on her head, a homemade badge professing her love for him and was wearing a drab grey skirt suit.

"Wrong toilet," Sherlock replied, his voice low and dismissive.

"I'm a _big_ fan," She continued, her eyes widening.

Sherlock threw the paper towel in the bin and turned around. "Evidently," He said, struggling to not roll his eyes.

"I've read all your cases; follow them all." She stepped closer, heels clacking. Her voice was breathless and lips parted adoringly. "Sign my shirt, would you?" Sherlock watched as she peeled back her jacket to show most of her cleavage. She innocently offered him a pen.

"There are two types of fans," Sherlock told her, eyes like stone.

"Oh?"

"'Catch me before I kill again' - Type A…"

She pouted. "Uh-huh. What's type B?"

"'Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away.'"

The red-haired woman grinned, her eyes demanding. "Guess which one I am?"

Sherlock let his brain run wild, conclusions popping behind his skull. _Pressure marks - pocket - ink_. "Neither."

She blinked nervously, a tad surprised. "Really?"

"No. You're not a fan at all." He pointed at the nearly invisible marks on her skin. "Those marks on your forearm: edge of a desk. You've been typing in a hurry, probably. Pressure on; facing a deadline." It really was a drug, he felt fire rising through his veins.

"That all?"

"And there's a smudge of ink on your wrist; and a bulge in your left jacket pocket." A dictaphone protruded slightly from the pocket, red light blinking evilly.

"Bit of a giveaway," she allowed.

"The smudge is deliberate, to see if I'm as good as they say I am." Sherlock lifted up her arm, sniffing at the ink on her wrist. "Hmm...oil based, used in newspaper print, but drawn on with an index finger; _your_ finger."

"Hmm!" She commended, reluctant for him to drop her hand.

"Journalist. Unlikely you'd get your hands dirty at the press. You put that there to test me. A novice could have guessed that, even Cl-"

Sherlock stopped himself. He was giving too much away to the reporter. She just grinned as if winning the lottery. "Clara Oswald? _Everyone_ wants to know who _that_ lovely lady is. Kitty Riley, by the way."

"She's just a colleague."  
"Is she here today, supporting the prize witness? Oh, that struck a nerve. Trouble in paradise?"

Sherlock breathed in sharply. He needed to get a hold of himself. "No. I'm just saving you the trouble of asking. No, I won't give you an interview; no, I don't want the money." He pushed past her, heading to the door.

"Is it just platonic between you two? Was she your wife or was that just a cover?" Kitty raced after him, stopping him from opening the door by wiggling into the space in front of him. Sherlock sighed angrily, he was practically fuming. "There's all sorts of gossip in the press about you. Sooner or later you're gonna need someone on your side..." She smiled carefully and tucked her business card into his suit pocket. "...someone to set the record straight."

Sherlock smiled without emotion. "And you think you're the girl for that job, do you?"

"I'm smart, and you can trust me, totally. Don't want Miss Oswald to get twisted by the press, do you?"

The door crashed open, Sherlock and Kitty jumping to the side. "Sherlock they're calling for you…" Clara trailed off, spying Kitty.

"Oh dear me, I think I've won the jackpot," Kitty breathed, staring at Clara. Sherlock locked eyes with Clara. He was so desperate for her to leave, to be safe but so afraid of her to be far away. Maybe she was right, maybe they could fight Moriarty together and live to tell the tale.

"Sherlock...who's this?" Clara glanced up at him, frowning.

"Kitty Riley. I've been wanting to meet _you_."

"You're a journalist," Clara said, stepping back in disgust.

"Oh!" Kitty exclaimed. "She's much quicker than you," She gave Sherlock a pointed look. "What do you think of Mr Holmes being called as an expert witness?"

"No, no, no, no," Sherlock interrupted, standing in front of Kitty. "You don't get to ask any questions. Not on my watch. Smart you said? Smart, okay, investigative journalist then. Good. Well, look at me and tell me what you see?" He was intimidating, glaring daggers at her. Kitty leaned back, unsure. "If you're that skilful, you don't need an interview, you can just read what you need." He waited a second before launching back into his speech. "No? Okay, my turn. I look at you and I see someone who's still waiting for their first big scoop so that their editor will notice them. You're wearing an expensive skirt but it's been re-hemmed twice; only posh skirt you've got. And your nails: you can't afford to do them that often. I see someone who's hungry. I don't see smart, and I _definitely_ don't see trustworthy, but I'll give you a quote if you like – three little words." Sherlock snatched the dictaphone out of her pocket. He was a hairsbreadth away from her. Sherlock held it close to his lips as he snarled into it. " _You...repel...me_." He turned, grabbing Clara's hand and stalking out of the bathroom.

They made it into the grand foyer before Clara tugged on his arm, stopping him. "Sherlock...that was…" She shook her head, unable to comprehend it. "I mean, I'm still mad at you-"

"I know."

"But that was extremely-"

"Clever?"

"Sexy."

They were both silent for a minute. Clara's face was on fire but she smiled anyway. "Courtroom ten, right?"

"Right."


	44. The Courthouse

**THANK YOU FOR 1000 STARS ON WATTPAD**

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THE NEW DOCTOR YASSSSSSSS

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Thanks to: Qwhatt, imagination cavern, You Can Call Me Effie

Oslock: oooh a drama production! Sounds exciting! Personally, drama isn't my cup of tea if I'm on the stage but I enjoy watching/organising costumes. I am so excited for the DW Christmas Ep cause I've heard rumours that Clara is coming back!

Cosmo39: Thank you!

Pri-Chan 1410: Thanks soooo much!

CresantShooter123: Haha I'm worried too - I've already cried heaps writing the future chapters

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Clara couldn't control her knee as it jittered up and down as she sat in the courtroom seat in the gallery. She could see Moriarty, leisurely chewing gum, his suit impeccable and hair combed back perfectly. She remembered the red dots from snipers he had ordered and how they burned across her collarbone. She remembered tapping out Morse code behind her back while she fooled him with a wall of words. She remembered knowing that if her death resulted in Sherlock living, she would have (and would now) happily agree to that trade. Clara shook her head, trying to shake the dark thoughts from her mind. Sherlock waited patiently, like a dark haired sentinel, looking down his long nose - completely above everyone else in the room. "Jesus, Clara," John whispered. "He's not the one on trial."

Clara crossed her legs and tried to shake off the nerves. "He's going to embarrass himself," She replied. _He's going to embarrass me_.

"I gave him a few tips in the taxi over."

Clara gave John a look. "He didn't listen, did he?"

John sighed, pressing his mouth into a thin line. "He said he'd just be himself."

Clara's mouth dropped open. "John!" She exclaimed, then lowered her voice because the other people in the courtroom gallery were starting to stare. "That's the worst possible situation."

" _You think I don't know that?_ " John breathed out his anger, gritting his teeth. "If you two weren't having this stupid row, that I don't understand - _that nobody understands_ \- then maybe you could've put some sense into him."

"Okay, this time, it wasn't _me_ who started the row - he wanted to ship me off to New Zealand!" Clara shook her head, remembering what she had said to Sherlock a few minutes ago. The words had just slipped out - she'd thought it and said it. "It's complicated right now," she finished, looking at her shoes.

John frowned. He shifted in his seat so he was facing her properly. "Complicated? So you two _are_ speaking?" Clara tried to look anywhere but at John. " _Clara_."

" _No_ ," She snapped. "Yes...maybe, I don't know!" She sighed, relenting. "Look, I'm trying to talk to him but he's turned back into Mister Sociopath on me. I am not leaving just because Moriarty is back and…" Clara trailed off, her anger bubbling out of her. "And then this morning, _oh_ , don't get me started on this morning…" Clara shut her mouth, she didn't need John to know that she called Sherlock sexy.

"What the hell happened this morning?"

" _Nothing_ ," Clara said, her voice loud enough to turn Sherlock's head towards them. John and her shared a look and tried to act normal.

"Clara - you have to fix it. _NO_ -" He cut her off. "When you two fight _everybody_ gets involved - Lestrade smokes twice as much, Molly has to deal with Sherlock since you're not around and the clients - _they end up crying_. Mrs Hudson stops bringing biscuits and Mycroft is even surlier than usual. So for the sake of the British Government, kiss and makeup."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Were you not listening? _New Zealand!_ "  
"I _know_ about Dartmoor - I doubt New Zealand could have wrecked _that_."

Clara opened and closed her mouth a few times before going bright red. She hadn't slept in her room at the hotel that night. They'd had too much to drink...Clara turned back to face the proceedings down below, where lawyers were getting ready and ushers were walking to and fro.

"I'm not going to New Zealand, John," She told him, looking away. "It's my job. I can't leave him."

John grew silent. "Even when he won't talk to you?"

Clara shook her head, wiping her forehead. The judge finally walked in and everyone stood. The jury followed in swiftly and obediently.

"A consulting criminal?" The prosecuting barrister started, flicking pages in her thick binder. She was a short woman with her wig jammed on too tightly but her voice radiated confidence.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, his voice bouncing off the wood panelled walls. He looked directly at Clara when he said them. Clara squirmed. _Shit_. She shouldn't have said that to him - she could practically smell the testosterone from the gallery.

"Your words," the barrister continued. "Can you expand on that answer?"

"James Moriarty is for hire," he explained, looking about the court.

"A tradesman?"

"Yes."

The barrister tapped her pen on the paper. "But not the sort who'd fix your heating…"

"No," Sherlock replied quickly, "The sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler." Muffled laughter rustled in the courtroom and the barristers hid their smiles behind their hands.

"Oh no," Clara whispered. This was a huge mistake. Why on earth did they think it would be okay to put a man with an ego larger than Jupiter in front of a jury?

The prosecuting barrister sighed, hiding her grin. "Would you describe him as-"

" _Leading_ ," Sherlock interrupted, offhandedly.

"What?"

"Can't do that," he quipped. "You're leading the witness." Sherlock's eyes flicked to the defending barrister. "He'll object and the judge will uphold."

The judge, with pale rolls of skin and impressive jowls grumbled loudly, " _Mr Holmes_."

Sherlock ignored the jab and turned back to the prosecuting barrister. "Ask me how - _how_ would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?"

"Mr Holmes, we're fine without your help," the Judge snapped.

Clara clasped the bridge of her nose. _Just shut up, Cheekbones!_ Clara shook her head but froze when she spied Kitty Riley, the silly reporter, taking a seat a few places behind her.

" _How_ would you describe him, this man - his character?"

Sherlock had been waiting for this; a chance to tell the world about the top-notch criminal. "First mistake. James Moriarty isn't a man at all - he's a spider; a spider at the centre of a web - a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances."

Moriarty, standing in his place at the other end of the court seemed to subtly agree with a tilt of his head. The prosecuting barrister cleared her throat, bringing back the attention to her. "And how long-"

" _No, no, don't_ -don't do that." Sherlock closed his eyes in exasperation. "That's really not a good question."

"Mr Holmes!" The Judge hollered, eyes bulging. Clara and John both crossed their arms angrily.

"How long have I known him? Not really your best line of enquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun; he tried to blow me up." Sherlock raised his eyebrows sarcastically. "I felt we had a special something."

"Miss Sorrel," the grumpy judge started, glaring at the barrister, "Are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?!"

"Two minutes would have made me an expert," Sherlock replied quickly, glancing smugly up at Clara. "Five was ample."

"Mr Holmes, that's a matter for the jury."

Clara squished her face between her hands, praying that Sherlock wasn't about to do what she thought he would. " _Please, please, please, shut up, don't-_ "

Sherlock had already turned to the jury, eyes narrowed and picking them apart like a biologist dissecting a heart. "One librarian; two teachers; two high-pressured jobs, probably the City. The foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad, judging by her shorthand…"

"Mr Holmes!" The judge yelled, jowls wobbling like jelly.

"Clara?" John said as Clara jumped up shuffled towards the stairs.

"I am not sitting here and watching him playing his stupid games and showing off," she spat, her skin bristling. She wouldn't watch him make a fool of himself - a murderer's fate was in his hands at the moment and all Sherlock cared about was impressing a girl.

Sherlock's voice dropped as he saw Clara jog up the steps out of the corner of his eye. He trailed off briefly, puzzled, before launching back into his deductions. "Seven are married and two are having an affair - with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits." He turned to the judge, poised with that smart-alek smile. "Would you like to know who ate the wafer?"

"Mr Holmes. You've been called here to answer Miss Sorrel's questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess. Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt." The judge finished sternly, eyeing Sherlock with his beady black eyes like black currants shoved into dough. Sherlock looked at the ceiling in denial, knowing that he was intellectually higher than any other person in the room. "Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without _showing off?_ "

Sherlock seemed to consider the question. He opened his mouth, lips parted, ready to speak…

.

"Your phone has been buzzing a lot," Molly noted, delicately sipping through a straw and giving a pointed glance to Clara's phone, which was blipping from her handbag.

Clara rolled her eyes. "Don't worry about it, Mols."

"I saw the papers."

Clara swirled her milkshake and bobbed a blob of ice cream up and down. They were sitting in a little cafe, a block from St Barts. Molly was on her break so Clara had called, wanting to be away from a certain silly detective.

"Is Anderson still being an ass?" Clara prodded, steering the conversation away.

"Yes, but," Molly stuttered, fiddling with the base of the glass. "What's going on with you and Sherlock? I mean, everyone is confused - Lestrade says you two are fighting and John did too but then you were at the trial and Mrs Hudson has been _talking_ and…"

"Nothing is going on between me and Sherlock" Clara exclaimed, her words harsher than she meant them to be. Why does everybody care about what happens between her and Sherlock? Didn't they have their own lives to live? Clara felt guilty though. Molly had been desperately in love with Sherlock since before Clara had met her. She hadn't told Molly about Dartmoor - about _dinner_.

"Why did they think you were married?" Molly frowned, but tried to keep her voice light.

"The press make stuff up all the time," Clara brushed off. She'd lost her interest in the chocolate milkshake before her.

Clara's phone hadn't stopped blipping since the start of their lunch. "I think you should answer that," Molly insisted.

Clara pulled her phone towards her, apologising. There were missed calls from John and Sherlock alike. Clara read the texts. She stifled a laugh.

"What?" Molly asked, a tentative smile on her face.

"Sherlock's gotten himself arrested, but for some reason only I can sign him out." Clara couldn't control her grin. "Do you want to go see a movie or something?"

.

" _Eight hours_ ," Sherlock snapped, his voice venomous. "You left me in there for eight hours!"

"It's your fault for being clever," Clara retorted, hanging up her coat as she entered 221B.

"I can't just turn it on and off like a tap."

"What happened, John?" Clara asked, spying him tapping away on his laptop. "You saw the whole thing, right?"

"Like you said it would be," John answered, glancing at Sherlock. "The other barrister sat on his backside and never even stirred.

"What - so he's not mounting any defence?" Clara exclaimed.

"He's Moriarty, he does what he wants," Sherlock sniffed, leaning on the mantlepiece. "Pentonville Prison, Bank of England, Tower of London...Three of the most secure places in the country and Moriarty breaks in, no one knows how or why."

Clara flopped into John's chair, yawning. "He ended up in custody…" She muttered. Sherlock looked at her, then at John. Clara shut her eyes. "Don't do that, Cheekbones."

He frowned. "Do what?"

" _The Look_."

"Look?"

"You're doing it again," Clara sang.

"Your eyes are shut!"  
"She's right though," John said.

Sherlock threw his hands into the air. "Well I can't see it!" Clara, eyes still closed, pointed to the mirror over the mantelpiece. "It's my face," he stated.

"What a grand deduction," Clara snorted, opening her eyes to laugh more. "It's doing the 'We both know what's going on' face."

"Well, we do."

"No. I don't, and John certainly doesn't - which is why _The Face_ is so annoying."

Sherlock sighed and started to pace. "If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's in a prison cell right now is because he chose to be there." Sherlock dragged a hand through his hair, ruffling the curls in confusion. "Somehow, this is all part of his scheme."


	45. Not Guilty

Holy cats nearly 300 reviews...

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Thanks to: .5095110, Kind Baudelaire, thiswriteris alwayslistless, Philoutubs, Whitecloak11, Misty Pine, Graham Crackers Are Awesome

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Smauglock (Guest): Don't feel bad! I don't mind where you read/review, whether it be on Wattpad or this site.

: I am so honoured from your review, it really made me smile. Wow India - I've always wanted to travel there. Salutations from Australia!

AdorableRepMCforYouth: Yay, I'm so glad you like it! Thank goodness it seems realistic - that's the one thing I'm always worried about.

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 _Not guilty_.

"Sherlock. Are you listening? He's out. You-you _know_ he'll be coming after you. Sher…"

Sherlock clicked off the phone, shutting out John's voice. That was the verdict. Moriarty was not guilty; twelve ordinary citizens of varying stupidity had deemed the most dangerous criminal in England as not guilty. Sherlock boiled the kettle, set out a tea tray, adjusting the silver spoons so they rested evenly on the saucers. He filled the teapot and rested the tray on the little table beside John's red chair. He picked up his violin, deftly flicking the bow a few times in the air like a sword before resting the taut horsehair across the strings. Bach's Sonata No. 1 in G minor flowed from his mind to his hands and through the violin. The beautiful melody filled up the room and whispered down the stairs. A creak in the slow footsteps of Sherlock's visitor made him pause. _Third step before the landing_. Sherlock breathed in, preparing for battle and continued the sonata. He let a few more notes sing from the strings before he lifted his bow from the instrument. "Most people knock," Sherlock murmured, voice low and powerful. He shrugged nonchalantly, still facing the window. "But then you're not most people, I suppose." He flicked his bow over his shoulder, pointing towards the tea tray. "Kettles just boiled."

Jim Moriarty, elegantly dressed in a light suit which contrasted strangely with his pale skin and dark eyes carefully picked up an apple from the fruit bowl. "Johann Sebastian would be appalled," he drawled in that uncaring Irish lilt. He tossed the red apple, catching it easily. "May I?" He looked at John's chair.

Sherlock finally turned around, facing his greatest enemy, his greatest game. "Please."

Moriarty immediately dismissed John's chair and flopped into Sherlock's. He pulled out a silver penknife and edged the sharp blade along the skin of the fruit. Sherlock, slightly unnerved, began to pour the tea. "You know when he was on his deathbed, Bach, he head his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end…"

"...And the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it."

Moriarty tilted his head, considering the apple. "Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody."

"Neither can you," Sherlock said. "That's why you've come."

"But be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased." A devilish smile played on Moriarty's lips.

"What, with the verdict?" Sherlock picked up one of the teacups, adding a splash of milk and gave it to Moriarty

"With me," Moriarty mused softly, "...back on the streets. Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain…You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I - except you're boring." He shook his head, obviously disappointed. "You're on the side of the angels."

Sherlock sipped his tea, ignoring how it burned his tongue. "Got to the jury, of course."

"I got into the Tower of London; you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

"Cable network," Sherlock breathed.

"Every hotel bedroom has a personalised TV screen and every person has their pressure point; someone that they want to protect from harm," Moriarty explained. "Easy-peasy."

Sherlock unbuttoned his jacket and sat in John's chair, cup lifted to his mouth. They were playing a game of chess except there were only two kings on the board. "I want to make a deal."

Moriarty frowned, yawning loudly. "You want to take the fun out of everything."

"Clara Oswald."

"Oh, I miss her. Little Clara...always up to tricks." A deadly gleam resonated from Moriarty's eyes.

"I want her out of the equation."

"Sorry," Moriarty sang, his voice childlike. "No can-do. She's too much fun. Plus, that silly stunt at the pool…" He shook his head, "No, no, no, no, she _is_ the equation, lover boy.

"So how are you going to do it...burn me?" He blew on his tea softly but deliberately.

Moriarty seemed to smile slightly. "Oh, that's the problem – the final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet? I did tell you...but did you listen?" He idly drummed his fingers on the armrest. Sherlock's jaw twitched. "How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know'?"

"I dunno," he replied smoothly, nonchalantly.

Moriarty chuckled in his superior tone but his eyes remained empty as the night sky. "Oh, that's clever; that's very clever - awfully clever." Sherlock smiled humorlessly, resting his cup back on the tray. "Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?"

"Told them what?"

"I'm sure little Clara is _dying_ to know - why I broke into those places and never took anything."

"No."

"But you understand."

"Obviously."

"Off you go then," Moriarty prodded. He carved a piece of an apple with the flat of his silver pen knife and biting down on it, relishing it. Sherlock paused, taking a second. So Moriarty wanted Clara to be part of the game, and Sherlock couldn't get her to stay away. A conundrum in itself.

"You want me to tell you what you already know?"

"No - I want you to _prove_ that you know it."

 _Fine_ , Sherlock thought, _I'll play_. "You didn't take anything because you don't _need_ to."

"Good," Moriarty commended, like Sherlock was the student and he was the teacher.

"You'll never need to take anything ever again…"

"Very good. Because…?" Moriarty was sitting on the edge of his seat, grinning like a madman.

"Because nothing ... _nothing_ in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."

"I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I _own_ secrecy. Nuclear codes – I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world with locked rooms, the man with the key is king; and honey, you should _see_ me in a crown." Moriarty smiled in delight.

Sherlock frowned, he was slow, too slow. The important things were only coming into his head now. _Idiot_. "You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do."

"And you were helping. Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities ... terrorist cells. They all want me." He sliced off another piece of apple, a small droplet of juice dripping to the carpet. "Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex."

"If you could break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?"

"I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. 'Daddy loves _me_ the best!' Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one. But I think one like Clara would be so much more exciting, at least for a while."

"Why _are_ you doing all of this?" Sherlock was sick of him mentioning Clara like he was considering buying a pot plant.

Moriarty was staring into space, his eyes alight. "It'd be so funny."

"You don't want money or power – not really." Sherlock watched as Moriarty dug into the apple with blade, carving across the red skin. "What _is_ it all for?"

"I want to solve the problem – _our_ problem; the final problem." His voice was soft, melodic. He lowered his head, becoming sombre. "It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall." He looked up whistling as his eyes trailed back down the ground, imagining someone falling. "But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination."

Sherlock sniffed in annoyance. "Never liked riddles."

They stood up, matching each other's murderous glare. Sherlock bared his teeth slightly, thinking of the danger Clara would be in.

Moriarty locked eyes with Sherlock - black pits on pale oceans. "Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I... _owe_...you." Sherlock didn't move as Moriarty brushed past him, footsteps whispering down the stairs. The apple was still sitting on the armrest, knife stabbed into the core. Sherlock picked it up. I O U had been carved into the red surface, exposing the white flesh beneath. Sherlock's lip quirked up into the beginning of a smile. It was terribly fun to battle with Moriarty.

.

Clara's feet slapped across the pavement as she marched down the street; a woman with a mission. She was meeting Molly again for some girl-to-girl talk. Clara always found it refreshing, talking about silly things with another female. Most of her time was spent racing after a man in a long coat and arguing with half of Scotland Yard. At least with Molly, Clara could complain about her new pair of shoes or discuss the new fashion trends. It made her feel like she was back in middle school again, gushing about cute boys. Clara stopped, spying a familiar black car pulled up at the curb. "You have got to be kidding me," Clara sighed, looking at the grey cloudy sky.

She opened the door, sliding in next to Anthea. Clara could never quite work out what Anthea's job was. She was always busy on her phone, her painted nails clacking on the street in double time. "I like your dress," Clara said, even though Anthea wore a similar black dress every time they encountered each other. Anthea allowed Clara a glance in her direction before turning back to her phone.

"Would you ever want to…" Clara started, choosing her words carefully. A deep blush was circling around her throat and up to her cheeks. There was no harm in trying - Anthea was a very beautiful lady.

"I have a girlfriend," Anthea snapped quickly. But at least she paused in her rapid texting.

Clara sighed. How could this day get any worse?

The Diogenes Club brought back a lot of memories. The first time Clara had been here, she'd punched one of the staff, giving him a blood nose. It wasn't her fault that no one told her it was strictly a silent venue. Mycroft's office was ornate with leather upholstered chairs and bookshelves made of deep red wood. Clara stopped when the door clicked behind her.

" _Doctor_ ," She greeted stiffly. He'd taken her by surprise - sitting in one of the lavish chairs, reading glasses on the edge of his nose and an upside down newspaper. Mycroft sat behind his desk, chin propped on his hands. "Should've guessed," Clara muttered. Of course Mycroft knew about the Doctor. Was there anything he didn't know?

"My people work very closely with UNIT," Mycroft explained.

"Of course they do," Clara replied. "You read this stuff?" She exclaimed, pointing at 'The Sun' newspaper on a small table.

"Caught my eye," Mycroft shrugged.

Clara sat down in one of the armchairs, eyeing the Doctor and Mycroft. It was strange, seeing her Alien life and Detective life in one room. They seemed like two magnets, repelled against each other's charge.

Mycroft stood up, handing Clara a file. Clara opened it, instantly looking at the photograph paper clipped to the top of the page. "Who's that?" Clara asked, looking at both of them.

"Don't look at me, I'm just here for the biscuits," the Doctor grumbled, stuffing a ginger biscuit into his mouth.

"Never seen this face before?" Mycroft prodded. Clara frowned. Should she know this mysterious stranger? "He's taken a flat in Baker Street, two doors down from 221B."

"Lovely, John and I were thinking about doing a drinks thing for the neighbours," Clara smiled.

Mycroft smirked snidely. "Not sure you'll want to. Sulejmani - Albanian hit squad. Expertly trained killer living less that twenty feet from your front door."

"It's a great location," Clara muttered sarcastically. "Jubilee line's handy."

"Clara," Mycroft warned.  
Clara let the file sit limp in her lap. "What's it got to do with me?"

Mycroft handed her another file. "Dyachenko, Ludmila. Russian killer. She's taken the flat opposite."

"Okay…" Clara said, her voice edging with her nerves.

Mycroft spilled more files into her arms. "In fact, four top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B. Anything you care to share with me?"

Clara smiled briefly, unsure what to say. "I'm moving?"

Mycroft just narrowed his eyes. "It's not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?"

"You think it's Moriarty?" Clara's gut twisted. Moriarty had just disappeared after the trial, no one had seen or heard of him since.

"He promised Sherlock he'd come back."

"If this was Moriarty, we'd be dead already," Clara countered.

"If not Moriarty, then who?"

"Why don't you talk to Sherlock if you're so concerned about him? He never tells me anything," Clara snapped, closing the file shut. Mycroft looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh God, don't tell me."

"Too much history between us, Clara. Old scores; resentments."

"Nicked all his smurfs?" Clara asked, a delicate brow arched in question. "Broke his action man?"

Mycroft glowered at her. "I have a proposal for you…" He walked over his desk, picking up a yellow envelope. "Just till all of this blows over…"

Clara opened it, a passport, a credit card, new driver's license and a plane ticket. "I'm staying, Mycroft," she told him, angrily, stuffing the documents back into the envelope.

"This was Sherlock's plan, but I - _we_ ," he corrected, glancing at the Doctor, "have another."

Clara turned to the Doctor. Her best friend. "I do have a time machine," he murmured, closing his newspaper.

Clara's lips parted, her brows drawing together. "So, what - I'll skip to the future with you? What if John's dead, what if Mrs Hudson's dead, what if Sherlock's dead?" Clara shook her head, trying to compose herself. "I can't leave them knowing that when I come back, they're not there." _He's not there_.

"And what if he get's you killed?" the Doctor asked, his eyes so demanding, so full of worry. "What if his stupid battle with that silly human goes sideways?"

Clara stood up. She couldn't believe this. Mycroft employed her to look after Sherlock and now he's telling her to run away and not look back. "At least then I'd die knowing I tried to save them, that I was brave, that I wasn't a coward!" She marched out, throwing the files to the floor, not caring that the top secret information spilled out of them onto the carpet.


	46. Molly

Just a reminder that there are a lot of mistakes in past chapters and I have been editing them...slowly.

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Thanks to: loverofbooks14, HopesandDreams2145, Cashagon, XxMaraudersxX, spencermatthew019, BabySealLover, WrathofAjax and

Oslock: Thank youuuu!

CresantShooter123: Yep, so headstrong but they all want to protect her. God I miss Clara from the show.

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"And how is my favourite detective going?" Clara said cheerily into her phone, despite the heated conversation she had just escaped. Clara's smile vanished as Lestrade spoke quickly into her ear. "Kidnapping?!" She exclaimed, her feet speeding up as she trotted down the street. She stuck her hand out, hailing a cab. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be right there."

Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the United States of America had two children, Max and Claudette, enrolled at a posh boarding school, St Aldate's, in Surrey. It had been the last day of school, but Bruhl was still in Washington, so the two kids and some others remained. They had just vanished overnight. The ambassador had asked for Sherlock... _the Reichenbach Hero_. Clara's heels crunched across the gravel. The school was definitely grand: trimmed hedges, immaculate lawns and wrought iron gates. "Clara, hi," Lestrade said, hands on hips and looking grave. He frowned. "Where's Sherlock?"

Clara's chin jutted back defensively. "Why should I know?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Whatever, I'll go get him. You two and your bloody rows…" he trailed off, muttering angrily. He sped away in one of the unmarked police cars.

Clara shook her head and walked up to Donovan, who looked surlier than usual. "They haven't been seen since last night," she said stiffly. Donovan nodded at a whimpering woman leaning on the hood of the police car. "That's the Housemother, Miss Mackenzie."  
Clara swallowed uneasily. "This is awful."

"Yeah well, shit happens." Donovan crossed her arms, "So...Lestrade said you're the unofficial social worker."  
"Not a social worker, just a comforting presence really," Clara corrected. She had a teaching qualification but definitely not any actual social worker training.

"Well, I think your comforting presence is needed," Donovan said sharply.

Clara's smile didn't meet her eyes as she gave Donovan one last glance. She walked over to the House Mistress carefully, nodding at the police officer who was cradling a box of tissues for the older lady. "Go easy," the constable murmured as Clara went past. "Miss Mackenzie," Clara greeted, a small smile on her face. "I'm Clara, Clara Oswald."

"Hello," Miss Mackenzie warbled, blowing her nose. Her great blue eyes were overflowing with tears that tracked down her wrinkled face. "Are you a detective?"  
"No, I'm not in the police." She tentatively placed her hand on Miss Mackenzie's trembling ones. "Now, is there anything you'd like to tell me before a detective comes over?" Miss Mackenzie shook her head, reaching for another tissue. "How about a nice cuppa then, eh?"

The young constable volunteered to trek to the staff room.

"Your husband's a detective - I saw him in the paper," Miss Mackenzie said, her chin wobbling. "Is he coming to arrest me?"

"No, no, no, of course not," Clara replied, her mind still wrapping around the statement. "You're not in any trouble at all; this is not your fault."

"Miss Mackenzie, you're in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night!"

Clara looked up, aghast, as Sherlock started shouting at the poor House Mistress. He'd suddenly appeared, face taut with anger. "What are you: an idiot, a drunk or a criminal?"

" _Sherlock_ ," Clara warned, her voice rising.

He ignored her and ripped the shock blanket from Miss Mackenzie's shoulders. "Now quickly, _tell me!_ "

"All the doors and windows were properly bolted. No-one – not even me – went into their room last night. You have to believe me!"

Sherlock's face softened and his hands rested gently on her shoulders. "I do, I just wanted you to speak quickly." He straightened and started to head to the school. "Miss Mackenzie will need to breathe into a bag now."

" _Sherlock_ ," Clara barked, running after him. "You nearly gave her a heart attack, hey! _You listen to-_ "

Sherlock whirled around so fast that Clara had to skid to a stop on the gravel. " _You kept me in jail for eight hours_ ," he growled, teeth bared.

"Some kids just got kidnapped - you really want to do this now?"

"Aren't you meant to be comforting someone?" He snapped. Then blinked, as if in surprise. His eyes narrowed. "What did he do?"

Clara frowned. "What?"

"You've talked to Mycroft."  
Clara gritted her teeth. Stupid detective making stupid deductions. " _So?_ "

Sherlock rolled his eyes, seething. "Your hands," he allowed. Clara looked at her hands, turning them over. "You've been biting your nails more than usual, recently too - clearly somebody has been agitating you... _oh_." Sherlock stopped talking. He motioned to Lestrade, who stalked over. "Get her out of here, back to Baker Street."

" _What?_ " Clara yelled, eyes flashing.

"You said no to the deal."

" _Obviously_ ," Clara replied. "I'm not leaving - we've been over this."

"I can't have you involved,' Sherlock said. He'd told her so many times, couldn't she just get the message? "I don't know when or where Moriarty will strike."

" _Okay kids!_ " Lestrade shouted, silencing them. "I am not having anymore of this bollocks. Can we please just get these children back to their father, yeah?" Clara and Sherlock glared at each other. They muttered something in reply. "Sorry?" Lestrade said, his voice laced with annoyance. " _Yes_ ," they told him, somewhat reluctantly.

"Good, now let's get on with it."

Lestrade led them to the dormitories, an uncomfortable silence surrounding them. Clara kept on trying to look at Sherlock, see what was curling behind his eyes but he always flicked his head away at the last second. They went to the girls' dormitory first. It was nice, but any six-grand-a-term boarding house would be. Sherlock was already dropping to his knees and peering underneath the bed.

"The intruder must have been hidden inside some place," Lestrade said, turning around, surveying the room.

"Where's John?" Clara asked, realising he wasn't there.

"Lunch date," Sherlock said, sniffing reproachfully. He didn't look at her as he answered. Clara opened the wooden trunk at the edge of the bed and rifled through the stuffed animals and sporting gear. There was a massive brown envelope stamped shut with a beautiful red wax seal. It was already broken, so Clara let the hard covered book slide out into her hands. It was 'Grimm's Fairy Tales'. She silently handed the envelope and book to Sherlock for inspection. He flicked through the pages and handed it back without a word.

"Show me where the brother slept," Sherlock murmured.

The next dorm was smaller, with only a few beds. Clara opened the cupboard, looking over the school uniforms and rumpled jumpers gravely. Sherlock went to the head of the bed, pointing at the frosted glass in the door. "The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He'd recognise every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door."

"Okay, so…" Lestrade prodded.

"So someone approaches the door who he doesn't recognise, an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon." Sherlock pushed the door aside and stood on the outside. He raised his hand as if it were a gun. It was plausible. "What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?" He walked around the bed, noting all the boy's possessions with his sharp eyes. "This little boy; this particular little boy…" He pointed at the bedside table which was overflowing with books. "Who reads all of those spy books. What would he do?"

"He'd leave a sign?" Clara offered, biting her lip.

Sherlock started sniffing. He snorted in air like a dog, smelling a forgotten cricket bat, the beside table. He reached underneath the bed and pulled out a bottle. "Linseed oil…" he murmured. He glanced at Lestrade. "Get Anderson."

.

They shut the wooden shutters on the windows and turned off all the lights. Anderson stood in the doorway, crumpled white overalls zipped up to his throat. Sherlock held up the bar of ultra violet light, waving it across the wall. ' _HELP US_ ' was written across the wall, messy and splattered but clear enough. Clara's stomach curled. The poor kids.

"Linseed oil, not much use," Anderson yawned. "Doesn't lead us to the kidnapper."

"Brilliant, Anderson," Sherlock said, moving the light across the bed.

"Really?" Anderson jolted in surprise.

"Yes. Brilliant impression of an idiot." Sherlock pointed at the floor, shining the light across the boards. Several sets of footprints were illuminated, some larger than others.

"A trail…" Clara murmured, bending down to look closer. She frowned. The shapes were funny, some were only half moons of imprint. "On what, tiptoe?"

"Indicates anxiety; a gun held to his head." They followed the footsteps out the door and into the hall. "The girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled about her neck."

"That's the end of it. We don't know where they went from here," Anderson drawled, crossing his arms. "Tells us nothing after all."

"You're right, Anderson - absolutely nothing," Sherlock said, giving Anderson a dark look. "Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace." Sherlock reached up and tore down the black sheet covering the window. Sunlight flooded in, making everyone blink quickly. Sherlock knelt down next to one of the footprints, fishing out his wallet of tools and a small plastic petri dish. He was smiling as he scraped at the wood and filling the container. Clara wanted to crouch beside him, laugh quietly while scolding him for being too happy when there were lives at stake. But she didn't. She looked at the ground, at her shoes, then turned on her heel and followed Lestrade back to Scotland Yard.

.

"Molly!" Sherlock cried, marching along the corridor with John walking swiftly beside him. John was much too eager to solve this case; obviously the date hadn't gone well.

"Oh, hello. I'm just going out." She had her bag and coat on. Cardigan done up crookedly, long hair in a neat ponytail and a line between her brows - Molly Hooper never looked any different.

Sherlock swivelled her around so they were facing the door to the lab. "No you're not."

"I've got a lunch date," Molly protested.

"Cancel it," Sherlock said, walking forward. Why did everybody have lunch dates today? "You're having lunch with me." He pulled out a bag of crisps from each pocket and waved them in the air.

Molly made a face and stopped following. "What?"

Sherlock stuffed the crisps back into his coat. "Need your help. It's one of your old boyfriends - we're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty." He turned and smiled back at Molly.

"It's Moriarty?" John uttered, face turning paler.

"'Course it's Moriarty!"

"Er, Jim actually _wasn't_ my boyfriend," Molly said, her voice feeble but trying to be confident. She wrung her hands together as she spoke. "We went out three times. I ended it."

"Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly." He pulled out the bag of crisps again as though it was much more enticing than anything else on the planet. Molly stared at him in utter bewilderment, her mouth parted in surprise.

Shortly afterwards, Sherlock didn't even look up from the microscope as Molly struggled through the door with an armload of textbooks. The sole of the shoe was like a passport. All the chemical traces had been preserved, and if they were lucky, they would be able to see what the suspect had been up to. "I need that analysis," Sherlock muttered, twisting the knobs on the microscope.

Molly snapped on a pair of gloves and let litmus paper rest in a sample. It turned blue instantly. "Alkaline."

"Thank you, John."

"Molly."  
"Yes."

Molly rolled her eyes, glowering at the lab table.

An hour passed, then another. Sherlock had discovered the first four components present on the shoe: chalk, asphalt, brick dust and vegetation. The last one was a glycerol molecule and it had stumped him. Sherlock was muttering useless thoughts aloud about the case, his 'mental notes'. It would drive Clara mad, but she'd never leave. Sherlock smiled, remembering that she would occasionally add to them like they shared a verbal shopping list.

"You're thinking about her, aren't you?" Molly said, looking down at the vial she was tipping into another. "Clara, I mean." Sherlock stilled, trying to appear unruffled. He didn't say anything. "You're a bit like my dad. He's dead." She smashed her eyes shut in embarrassment. "No, sorry."

"Molly, _please_ don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area," Sherlock remarked.

Molly shuddered, brushing the comment off. "When he was...dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

" _Molly…_ "

"You look sad…" Her eyes flicked to John who was on the other side of the room, "When you think he can't see you. But…" Molly trailed off, her mouth pressing into a line.

"What?" Sherlock was interested but he didn't dare allow the impression that he was genuinely hanging onto her every word.

"You, you don't smile when she's around. Not really, not like you just did before. I mean, you _do_ smile but your eyes look sad. You look…" She struggled to find the right word. "Sorry - you look happy but sorry." She wasn't making much sense and seemed to realise it herself. "Are you okay?" Sherlock opened his mouth but Molly interrupted him. "And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad and sorry and happy when no one can see you. Well..." Sherlock could feel his heart tattooing in his chest. "I think Clara can, but...she's confused."

"But _you_ can see me," Sherlock butted in, looking up at her.

"I don't count." This made Sherlock blink, his heart skipping a beat. "What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have _me_." She flinched at her word choice, shaking her head. " _No_ , I just mean... _I mean_ if there's anything you need...it's fine."

Sherlock felt shaken, like his defences had been stripped away. "Wh-what-what, what could I need from you?"

Molly shrugged, turning back to him. "Nothing. I don't know. You could probably say thank you, actually." Her voice was much more assertive as she regained her composure.

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "...thank you," he finally choked out, the words unfamiliar in his mouth.

Molly started to walk to the door, her long ponytail swishing away. "I'm just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?" She shook her head already knowing the answer. "It's okay, I know you don't."

"Well, actually, maybe I'll…"

"I know you don't." The door swung shut behind her.


End file.
